


Burn My Lungs, Curse My Eyes

by capyshota



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Religious Discussion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-06
Updated: 2018-04-06
Packaged: 2019-04-19 04:03:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 46,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14228835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/capyshota/pseuds/capyshota
Summary: All evidence points to a coincidence, but Detective Inspector Park's intuition is speaking louder than the evidence. To get a feel for the case, Chanyeol jumps right into the middle of it--in this instance, 'it' is a mysterious hotel tied to several disappearances and potential murders.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Ticket No. 424  
> Warnings: character death, graphic violence/death, mentions of religion, explicit sexual content  
> Pairing: Chanyeol/Baekhyun  
> Side Paring: Baekhyun/Kyungsoo  
> Time Period: 1950's

Day 1 — October 8th, 1958

Los Angeles, California

 

_“Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket, never let it fade away,_

_Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket, save it for a rainy day,_

_For love may come and tap you on the shoulder some starless night,_

_Just in case you feel you want to hold her, you'll have a pocketful of starlight.”_

 

The weather is grey. It's not rainy, and not even particularly cold, but it's certainly glum.

Chanyeol throws his hat into the passenger seat and turns the FM down a few notches. The streets of Los Angeles are just beginning to congest with the traffic of the now-finished work day and Chanyeol is thankful he'd left early. He pulls the car over beside a corner store and reaches behind his seat for the map. It can't be more than ten minutes away, but every corner he turns is like a brand new neighbourhood with a new variety of shops and buildings. Pinning his current location at… 7th and Mont-Clair Street, Chanyeol traces the path to the hotel and quickly commits it to memory.

He stows the map away, hopefully for the last time, and pulls back onto the street. While he drives, he recaps all the information he could find on file about this case. Total number of casualties: three. Cause of death: myocardial infarction—heart attacks. Suspicious: officially, no—casualties had varying and complicated health backgrounds. Number of reported missing persons known to have been visiting the Legacy Hotel: eight.

Jongdae had been adamant, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that this 'case' is nothing more than a string of coincidences.

He's wrong. Chanyeol  _knows_  he's wrong.

Even if the deaths turn out to be a dead end, some sort of bizarre contagion, the disappearances most certainly are not.

From what he can tell, none of the White detectives are planning on looking too closely into the case and that itself gives Chanyeol more than enough motivation.

Of the eight reported missing and three deceased, eight are Korean, two are Japanese, and one is Chinese. All male, all between the ages of twenty and forty years old.

Chanyeol has heard stories of this suburb from colleagues—it's an enormous Korean hub, far larger than any in San Francisco at least, although it houses various other Asian minorities as well.

As for the hotel, there is shockingly little information available; namely, a permit showing the address of a building which was erected by An Seung-ho in 1907—no blueprints, no advertisements, no telephone number. Chanyeol can only assume it's still Korean-owned and operated.

After weaving through a number of residential blocks, the homes become more and more scarce and less and less Caucasian. Chanyeol turns up the road he recognizes as being in the street address and slows the car to a crawl.

Keeping his eyes peeled for the hotel, he nearly misses the man frantically bolting across the road. He hits the brakes but the man pays him no mind, tripping over his feet and nearly crashing to the pavement in his haste. Chanyeol half expects someone to dart out of a nearby shop and begin chasing him, demanding payment, but such a person never appears. The man has something tucked under his arm and every time he stumbles he hugs the parcel tight, protecting it from damage. Chanyeol quickly cranks his window down and looks out, following the man's path up a set of steps and into the attached building.

It takes several seconds before he realizes the building's address is the one he's looking for; it's the hotel. A small placard above the double doors reads '유산 호텔'—'Legacy Hotel'.

A honk from behind him shocks his foot off the brake and he carefully maneuvers into an empty parking spot across the road. He cranks the shift back into park and sits back in his seat.

He glances over at the hotel again; it's larger than he'd expected, actually—three stories atop the main floor—although it is rather slim. The exterior is dark brick and the trim of each window has been painted an elegant, if not bold emerald green. Along the right-hand side of the hotel runs an alley, while a tiny café is squeezed up against the left.

…It looks like an ordinary hotel, not a murder castle or a torture chamber.

Chanyeol sighs. It's one thing to prepare yourself for a case from 400 miles away, it's another to be staring up at it, minutes from checking in.

Someone within those walls could be a murderer; in fact, Chanyeol believes it's more likely than not. And it's not as if he hasn't faced dangerous criminals before, even under circumstances like these, but something about this case seems to hit so close to home. He's worked Korean cases back in San Francisco with Jongdae but they've never resonated with him as this one does.

He feels for the revolver strapped to the holster on his waist, comforted by its presence, and dons his hat. He clears his throat and breaks into a mild cough, throat burning slightly.

He hefts his suitcase, filled mostly with missing person profiles and clean pairs of underwear, out of the backseat. It’s a bulky, battered thing passed down from his father—leather bound with heavy brass clasps. A few steps elevate the entrance from ground level and with a quick breath in and out, Chanyeol pushes the double doors open.

The smell of cigarette smoke hits Chanyeol before anything else does. He sets down his trunk and waves a hand in front of his face. Almost as if a cloud were parting to reveal the gates of heaven, the smoke rises, grey and murky, to expose the lobby—something from a dream.

A jazzy instrumental, straight from the 1930’s, drifts through the room from a hidden radio, setting an elegant, old-timey scene. The floors are black and white checkered tile, reminiscent of decades past, while the ceilings are vaulted, supported by throughout. The decor is mostly wooden, stained dark and studded along the seams. The chairs are all located just to the left of the entrance, forming a casual circle near the fireplace that's been built into the wall.

Most prominent by far, though, are the plants. Ferns, palms, and shrubs of every sort are sprinkled around the lobby and against the far wall is a grand pine bonsai potted within a hand-crafted brick barrier—it easily stretches two or three feet above Chanyeol's head.

A Korean jungle within American suburbia.  The tree must be hundreds of years old and Chanyeol absently wonders how it made its way to Los Angeles.

Considering the style, the hotel looks as though it hasn't undergone any major renovations since its construction, over fifty years ago.

Although he never had an exact picture in his mind, he'd imagined the hotel would at least look a little more… gothic, perhaps? Enigmatic? Malicious? But just as with the outside, the inside is simply… a hotel, dated as it may be.

“Hello,” a voice trills to his right.

He snaps out of his daze and looks towards the check-in desk. It's long, stretching a third of the length of the lobby, and finely polished with carved intricacies at either corner.

The man behind the desk, however… is not as Chanyeol had expected the receptionist to be.

To begin, he's at least a half foot shorter than Chanyeol, and his smile is genuine rather than disconcerting or forced. His clothes are casual: a pale blue cardigan over top of a white polo shirt—not usual receptionist attire—and his hair is pushed back in a handsome, boyish coif. The man's hands are folded in front of him, the picture of a proper host.

He leans forward, the corner of his mouth quirking up.

“Can I help you?”

Chanyeol blinks.

“…Yes. Please.”

He wanders toward the desk, . A service bell sits on the edge and behind that, a telephone. The man isn't wearing a name tag, nor does the desk have a placard.

“A single room please.”

“Of course,” the man responds, not so much as glancing at the open registration book before him. “And may I ask how long you'll be staying for?”

“Mark me down for… five nights, I suppose. Then I'll need to continue moving east.”

As with every undercover case he works, Chanyeol has fleshed out a false identity—a backstory to use as a safety blanket. This time, he's an aspiring author, road tripping across southern America in search of real encounters with the supernatural and unexplained.

“Will do,” the man coos, twiddling his pen between his fingers for a moment until he finds an available room in the book. He makes a quick note.

“May I ask your name, sir?”

“Chanyeol Park.”

He only ever bothers with pseudonyms when he's in San Francisco; nobody can find him from this far away.

The receptionist turns around, scanning the cubby holes for the correct room number.

“Ah,” he mutters, snatching a key on a ring and holding it out for Chanyeol. “You'll be in room two hundred and five. The charge is four dollars and twenty-five cents per night and includes complimentary breakfast. The amount is payable at the time of your check-out via cash or cheque. Your room contains both a toilet and shower and if you so desire to cook, a communal kitchen is located in the north-eastern most corner of the floor. If not, we do run a restaurant from six in the morning until nine at night and offer concierge services and recommendations of other eateries in the neighbourhood. If you have any questions about the city or requests for how we can make your stay more comfortable, we have friendly, accommodating staff stationed at the front desk full-time excluding Sundays.”

The man ends his lengthy albeit well-prepared monologue with a smile.

Chanyeol hesitates for a moment before accepting and pocketing the key. His first impression of the man is that he seems a little superficial—not exceptionally smart, probably just a part-time worker here to support his family. He is genuine, but it's far too early to start assuming anyone's reliability.

At the very least, he’s likely had encounters with some, if not all, of the victims.

“If you don't mind me asking, whereabouts are you travelling from?” he suddenly asks.

“Washington,” Chanyeol answers, “Seattle.”

The receptionist's eyes widen.

“So far? Goodness, I hope we'll be able to make your trip worthwhile.”

Chanyeol absently notices how impeccable his English is—something that can't be said for very many immigrants.

“I wouldn't worry about that,” Chanyeol smiles, “From what I've seen already of California, I don't think it's possible to be disappointed.”

The man nods fervently.

“It's absolutely beautiful down here. I just wish we could've given you better weather.”

Chanyeol shrugs.

“I'm used to the clouds, I don't think it will affect my opinion. Anyways, thank you for such a warm welcome Mr. …”

Chanyeol leaves the sentiment open for a name.

“Oh! I'm sorry.”

The man drops his pen, looking mortified with his own informality.

“I should have introduced myself earlier. My name is Byun Baekhyun, I own this hotel.”

Chanyeol masks his surprise well. Not just an employee, he's the _owner._  

“Pleasure to meet you.” Baekhyun holds his hand out over the desk and Chanyeol has to grapple to remember the last time another Asian person had ever offered him a hand to shake.

“The pleasure's all mine,” Chanyeol insists.

His handshake is brief but powerful.

“In any case, I should probably get settled in my room.”

Chanyeol takes a step back, surveying the lobby for signs of an elevator or stairs.

“Ah,” Baekhyun gestures to the far side of the lobby. “The stairwell is located just behind those doors. Do you have any luggage I can assist you with?”

Chanyeol gestures to the single suitcase.

 

“Just the one.”

“Wonderful.” Baekhyun claps his hands together. “I'll have Jongin deliver it to your quarters immediately.”

He peeks over his shoulder at the wall-mounted clock.

Quarter past six.

“Once you're settled, please feel free to join us for dinner.”

He gestures to the back wall, where a pair of double doors open into a dining room.

“I'll be sure to.” Chanyeol nods. “Thank you.”

The doors to the stairwell have large decorative glass panes inlaid. The stairs themselves are wooden, sanded smooth and stained. Small oil lamps line the walls, lighting up the hall in place of windows. Chanyeol climbs to the first landing, where the staircase curves, then on to the second floor.

The walls up here are the same natural stained wood, but in place of tiles, thin, wool carpet stretches from wall to wall. Spindly vines and coloured blossoms adorn the carpet, bringing the jungle motif up to the second storey.

He follows the hallway around until he finds the door with a little embossed placard reading _'205'_ on the door. To the right of his room, a small trapdoor is set into the wall—a dumbwaiter, he realizes, for the room attendants to transport laundry in.

Chanyeol unlocks his door and gently pushes it open, stepping into a stunningly ordinary room. The washroom is directly to his left, taking up nearly a third of the room. To his right is the bedroom: a single bed with the headboard pressed to the wall, a bedside table with a lamp, an ashtray, and a clock, and an armchair near the half-moon window. The carpeting from the hallway has crept under the door to cover his floor as well. There's a shoebox-sized closet in the very corner, accompanied by a row of coat hangers.

Someone clears their throat behind him and Chanyeol spins around. A young man with un-gelled hair stands in the doorway, panting slightly. He's wearing a smart grey vest with brass buttons running up either side of the chest.

A bellhop.

He smiles when Chanyeol acknowledges him.

“Good evening, sir,” he murmurs. “I've brought your luggage for you. Mind if I carry it inside?”

Chanyeol laughs.

“That's alright, I'll take it from here.”

The man—boy?—nods bashfully, taking a courteous step back. He's rather cute; a wide nose, full lips and striking jawline. It's a shame he seems so shy.

“I'll be going then, sir.” He dips into a bow, backing up further.

“Hold on!” Chanyeol takes a step after him. “…Jongin, was it?”

The man straightens up and blinks.

“Um… Yes. Sir.”

Chanyeol fishes around in his pocket and pulls out some change. He sifts through it and holds two quarters out, waiting for Jongin to offer an open palm.

“It's a tip. Take it,” Chanyeol prompts.

“O-oh,” Jongin mumbles, tentatively accepting the money.

“Thank you, sir. Have a wonderful night.”

Chanyeol lets him scurry away, dragging his suitcase in with one hand and hefting it up onto the luggage rack.

He shuts the door behind him and takes a quick look through his suitcase to make sure nothing is out of place. He thumbs through all eight missing person files as well as the folder with information on the three deceased guests before pulling them all out and sliding them onto the highest shelf in the closet, out of sight for anyone under six feet tall. On the off chance that someone goes rummaging through his room, it's better that there's no condemning evidence that he's a detective.

After that, he sits down on the bed and takes a good look around the room.

He notices a decorative heating grate in the corner just next to the bed and kneels down to get a better look at it. He presses his ear to it, listening for any other sounds that's may be echoing up. After a moment of concentration, he starts to hear a wailing child and the soothing sounds of its mother.

Chanyeol sits back up. If the vents are interconnected between rooms, there's a low probability that toxic inhalants are being pumped through. Unlikely cause of death.

Jongdae's voice nags in the back of his head,  _“They all died from cardiac complications. That isn't something you can just induce.”_  

Chanyeol remembers having a lengthy back and forth with Jongdae, even going so far as to question the competency of the medical examiners. 

_“Then maybe you should've become a doctor rather than a cop,”_ he'd replied.

Chanyeol sighs. Jongdae is his best friend, no one else has ever cared so much about him—not since he's entered a profession that's dominated by White men, a t least.

He coughs weakly, clapping his chest as he climbs to his feet and continues looking around the room. There's an air-con unit sticking out from the window, still rumbling quietly despite the day's cloud cover.

Chanyeol walks back and forth across the floor, occasionally stomping his foot to check for the echo of a trap door. He carefully studies the rug too, looking for unnecessary seams or cuts.

Nothing.

Well… At least that's one dead end out of the way.

Chanyeol's stomach starts gurgling and he realizes he hasn't eaten anything since he'd left San Francisco six hours ago. The hotel's restaurant service is something dangerous—poison is a very feasible murder weapon, after all. If the cook had slipped the guests a dose or two of something under the table, it could end up looking like cardiac arrest post-mortem.

On the other hand, there are no reports of witnesses that saw any of the deceased guests displaying the symptoms of a heart attack. That probably means the deaths occurred while the restaurant was empty, if not in another room completely. At any rate, it’s still necessary to investigate.

Chanyeol double checks that all his possessions are stowed away before heading downstairs.

The lobby is noisy, several people chatting and milling about while a mere ten minutes ago it had been empty.

Chanyeol looks over to the front desk, seeking a familiar face, but Baekhyun is not behind the desk anymore. He’s been replaced by a more solemn looking man with thick rimmed glasses and dark clothes.

He approaches the desk and clears his throat.

“Hello, I’m looking—”

 

up from the registration book.

“Park Chanyeol, correct?”

His eyes are cold and calculating, holding none of the friendly draw Baekhyun's had. He seems contemptuous, even.

Rather than English, this man speaks to him in Korean.

Chanyeol nods slowly.

The man gestures toward the back wall where the majority of the people are mingling.

“He's in the dining room.”

Again, in stark contrast to Baekhyun, this other receptionist is a man of few words.

Chanyeol quietly thanks him for his help and turns away.

The double doors to the dining room are just to the left of the pine tree, currently both wide open, and Chanyeol realizes this room is the source of most of the chatter.

He takes a glimpse inside—there are about six tables in total and only one is still vacant. The tile from the lobby has been traded out for deep maroon carpet and the wallpaper shimmers with lines of bronze. The chandelier is clearly old; the fittings upon which the lights sit are crooked and cobwebs weave throughout the dangling crystals. Against the far wall is a grandiose fireplace with ornate carving around the hearth. A record player sits within a small cabinet in the corner, crooning a familiar tune.

_“Deep in the dark your kiss will thrill me,_

_Like days of old,_

_Lighting the spark of love that fills me,_

_With dreams untold.”_

The kitchen—to the left—is separated by a single wall with two swinging doors. Chanyeol recognizes the boy diving in and out of the doors as Jongin, the young bellhop.

Next, he scans each table, gaze eventually settling on one near the windows that's occupied by two men. The evening light, gloomy as it may be, falls upon a familiar face.

_“Each day I pray for evening just,_

_To be with you,_

_Together, at last, at twilight time.”_

Baekhyun notices Chanyeol almost immediately, smiling and standing from his seat.

“Care to join?” he asks, gesturing to the empty seat beside him.

The man accompanying him glances over his shoulder—his face is strikingly handsome, cat-like eyes following Chanyeol’s movements with unnerving precision. His attire is formal if not a little sinister—head to toe, his entire suit is a sharp, coal black.

Chanyeol nods politely, taking the seat he's been offered.

“This is… Chanyeol, correct?” Baekhyun leans over to confirm, placing one hand on his shoulder.

He dips into a bow and replies, “Park Chanyeol.”

Baekhyun smiles. “And this is—”

“Kim Minseok,” the man purposefully cuts Baekhyun's introduction short. “I'm not a child, Baekhyun, I don't need coddling.”

He tears his gaze from Baekhyun and bows in greeting.

Baekhyun clears his throat and sits back in his chair.

Chanyeol holds off for a moment, expecting some sort of explanation.

When he receives none, he asks, “…And you're… a hotel manager?”

“A guest,” Minseok corrects. “I've been living here for nearly two years, now.”

Chanyeol leans back in surprise.

“Oh. Are you from Los Angeles?”

Minseok has been speaking Korean with him this entire time so Chanyeol has had no opportunity to assess his English.

Minseok shakes his head.

“Chongjin. It's an iron and steelworks town. Or at least it was before I left; who knows what the Russians did with it.” 

_North Korea_ , Chanyeol realizes.

“Did you move here before the war?” he asks.

Minseok laughs, humourless.

“I was granted a visa on my twentieth birthday and left a few months later, July of 1945—one month before the Russian occupation.”

That would make Minseok thirty-three years old—hardly any older than Chanyeol.

“I lived in New York for a long time before settling here. Baekhyun told me I could stay for as long as I wanted at a discounted price. Sometimes he's a pretty nice guy.”

Minseok smirks over at Baekhyun. They've obviously grown to be very close friends which could either prove to be very good or very bad for Chanyeol's case.

“That's enough about me though.” Minseok's mouth draws back into a line. “What about you?”

This is the part where Chanyeol always begins to grow nervous. Creating a factually-sound fake background is difficult enough, but Chanyeol is hardly an actor and he's constantly afraid that his stories aren't quite as believable as he thinks.

“My parents moved to Canada not long after I was born. I followed a girl to Seattle in adulthood and ended up settling there without her. Not much more to it than that.” Chanyeol shrugs, sweat pricking just under his collar.

“And… Why Los Angeles?”

Minseok sits back in his chair and laces his fingers together. Even though there's no chance of him knowing Chanyeol's identity, the way Minseok is watching him almost makes him feel as if he's being baited—as if Minseok is just waiting for an inconsistency.

Chanyeol shrugs.

“Call it a spontaneous holiday. It's not likely I'll be staying for more than a week. And besides,” he continues, “I've never visited a large Korean community before. I was raised in a White community.”

Baekhyun nods thoughtfully.

“This hotel is one of the oldest Korean-run buildings in the neighbourhood, aside from the church.”

He talks about the building as if it's a successful child of his.

Someone clears their throat behind Chanyeol and he glances up. Jongin places a glass of water down in front of him, as well as a small ceramic tea cup.

“I'll brew you a new pot immediately. Is there anything else I can get you?”

Chanyeol has a quick look for a menu but doesn't find one.

“…What's available?”

“A-ah,” Jongin stutters, “My apologies. I'll fetch you a menu right away, sir.”

He scurries to the wall separating the kitchen from the dining room, grabs a menu off his table, and scurries back.

“Here you are. We have both traditional Korean dishes and standard western dishes available, although, with respect, I'd have to recommend the traditional dishes; they're Sehun's area of expertise.”

“I can second that,” Baekhyun adds.

Chanyeol has a quick flip through the book, more as a courtesy since he already knows exactly what he wants. “I'll have the naengmyeon.”

It's a dish his mother prepared frequently—he hasn't visited his parents in nearly four years now and his mouth is watering at the memory.

“Right away, sir.” Jongin nods and departs, heading directly into the kitchen.

“Anyway,” Chanyeol picks the conversation up where it left off, “ the hotel was built in 1907, right?”

Baekhyun looks surprised.

“Yes, actually. How did you know?”

Chanyeol takes a sip of his water.

“I'm a bit of an architecture fanatic. Washington doesn't have nearly as many historical buildings as you do in California.”

Baekhyun laughs.

“I'm not sure I would classify this hotel as 'historical' as much as 'aged'. But it is beautiful nonetheless.”

An awkward pause follows, none of them able to concoct more small talk nor willing to progress past it.

Jongin breaks the lull when he places a new pot of tea on their table and retrieves the old one.

“Thank you, Jongin,” Chanyeol murmurs.

“So… Are you planning on doing much sightseeing while you're in the city?” Baekhyun eventually asks.

Chanyeol takes a moment to contemplate.

“I suppose it would be a waste of a drive if I didn't.”

“I'm sure Minseok can provide some recommendations,” Baekhyun grins, “seeing as he's a man of the town.”

Minseok clicks his tongue disdainfully, giving Chanyeol the impression that he's something of a homebody.

“And I'm sure you know it so much better. I doubt you've even left this building in the last three years,” he sneers.

Chanyeol watches Minseok carefully as the two engage, catching everything from the restless drum of his fingers to his bouncing gaze. He's an addict; perhaps only cigarettes, perhaps something more.

“—not be quite so tactless in front of our guest, perhaps?”

Chanyeol only catches the end of Baekhyun's statement.

 

As if to signify the end of the conversation Baekhyun lifts the teapot and refills Minseok's cup, followed by Chanyeol's then his own. Chanyeol suddenly has to wonder about Baekhyun's age. In all honesty, he only appears to be in his mid-twenties, although to be operating a fairly well-off hotel, he must be closer to Chanyeol's age.

“I'm twenty-nine,” Baekhyun hums, watching Chanyeol.

Despite years of training, Chanyeol can't keep all the surprise off his face.

“How did you know I was—”

“Lucky guess.” Baekhyun smiles.

That was not luck, it was skill. He had managed to read Chanyeol's expressions and extrapolate on his train of thought like it was nothing; that's a gift very few people have.

Chanyeol knows because Jongdae is one of those people.

Chanyeol's stunned silence is cut very short by Jongin sliding a bowl in front of him followed by a cloth napkin and cutlery set.

The food looks incredible: chilled broth, dark, buckwheat noodles, and half a soft boiled egg atop it all.

“Thank you, Jongin,” Chanyeol murmurs before he skitters away.

Chanyeol slowly stirs the soup with his chopsticks for a few moments before taking the first bite. Nostalgia washes over him and suddenly he's back at home in San Francisco, laughing and chatting with his family, at a time when everything was easier.

“Good?” Baekhyun asks and Chanyeol nods, broth dripping from his lips. “Sehun is something of a natural, if I say so myself.”

They don't speak much after that. Chanyeol tries to pace himself but he's absolutely famished and finishes within a matter of minutes.

When the bowl is empty, Minseok's clears his throat.

“If you'll excuse me, gentleman.”

He gives no reason for his departure and Baekhyun doesn't seem to expect one.

There's another short silence and Chanyeol realizes the dining room is far emptier now; aside from one table against the far wall, he's alone with Baekhyun.

A gentle sigh escapes Baekhyun and Chanyeol glances over at him.

“…You aren't here for the landmarks, Chanyeol; that's clear enough.”

He's tracing the design of the tablecloth with his finger.

“So why are you in Los Angeles? You can be honest with me.”

Baekhyun meets his gaze.

Chanyeol stills like a deer in headlights. He holds his tongue for a moment and Baekhyun doesn't push. If he answers this question incorrectly, there's a chance he could die. On the other hand, if he admits his interest in the disappearances as a civilian, Baekhyun could potentially provide him with all sorts of exclusive information.

He weighs his options in the space of five or six seconds.

“…I heard about the spontaneous deaths.”

The corner of Baekhyun's mouth twitches, seemingly pleased that Chanyeol had given him the answer he was looking for.

“I thought as much.”

Baekhyun stands abruptly.

“Well I should be heading to bed so I'm well rested for the morning shift. Don't worry about the bill, I'll take care of that, seeing as I invited you to join. Have a pleasant night, Chanyeol; no doubt I'll see you tomorrow.”

Chanyeol doesn't have time to get a word in edgewise before Baekhyun is halfway across the room.

As soon as he disappears around the corner, Jongin steps into his field of view, appearing once again as if from thin air.

“Did you enjoy your meal, sir?”

His bangs are hanging nearly in front of his eyes.

“Hm? Oh, absolutely.” Chanyeol nods. “My regards to the chef.”

“Glad to hear it.”

Jongin collects his empty dish and returns it to the kitchen. After a few minutes of waiting for him to reappear, Chanyeol decides Baekhyun has probably already informed him about the bill and departs.

The same man is still standing behind the reception desk, staring at the far wall as if he expects it to begin moving. Chanyeol wanders closer, hesitant to draw him from his daydream.

“Good evening.”

Chanyeol startles when the man addresses him.

“Uh… Yes. Yes, evening.”

The lack of emotion on his face is genuinely distracting to Chanyeol.

“Would you mind sending a wake-up call for seven o'clock?”

“Of course. Anything else?”

The man doesn't take any sort of note.

“N-no. Thank you. Have a good night.”

“You as well.”

Taking the farewell as a dismissal, the man turns to glance out the front doors, eyes reflecting the headlights of passing cars. Chanyeol nods politely and backs up before turning away completely.

The lights in the stairwell and hallway have been dimmed.

His bedroom window is looking out on the small alley that runs to the right of the hotel so there is almost no light entering.

He turns on the lamp and sits on the edge of the bed, pulling a cigarette out of the pack in his jacket. He gives his lighter a quick shake to see how much gas it has left before pressing the lever down and holding the end over it until it lights.

He takes a few long drags and does a mental rundown of suspects.

Baekhyun: amiable. If the murders were a matter of gaining trust through friendship, he's a prime suspect. Not to mention he’s skilled at deciphering expressions.

Jongin: timid. Genuinely so. Likely lacks the emotional strength required of a self-sufficient murderer. More likely to be a pawn than anything else.

And Minseok… Chanyeol hasn't considered until now that the suspect could be a guest rather than a staff member. There's almost always overwhelming evidence that points to the perpetrator needing access to restricted areas, but after meeting Minseok… nothing is for certain.

Chanyeol taps his cigarette against the edge of the ashtray on the side table, watching the embers smoulder then extinguish.

That man—the night receptionist…

Chanyeol couldn't be certain whether his actions speak of sociopathy or if he is just utterly disenchanted with his job.

Another loose end is that man who had sprinted out in front of his car holding onto a parcel for dear life. He'd darted into the hotel but Chanyeol has yet to see any sign of him.

Chanyeol takes one final drag before snuffing out his cigarette and beginning to undress.

He settles into bed and stares at the ceiling, fingers drumming against his legs under the covers as he tries to force all conscious thoughts from his head.

It's almost definitely his imagination, but before he falls asleep, Chanyeol thinks he hears the walls creaking.


	2. Chapter 2

Day 2 — October 9th, 1958

 

Someone knocks on his door and Chanyeol damn near jumps out of his skin.

Eyes still bleary with sleep, he sits up straight and grabs the revolver from under his pillow, tucking it into the waistband of his pyjama pants.

He squints through the peephole before deciding whether or not to answer and lets out a heavy breath. He opens the door enough to stick his head out.

“Good morning, sir.”

Jongin is smiling up at him.

“It's seven now; you requested a wake-up call.”

Chanyeol pauses.

“Yes. You're right, thank you, Jongin.”

Jongin nods and departs.

Chanyeol closes the door and leans against it. He's already so agitated and he hasn't even been here for a full day.

He walks over to the window, rubbing grit from his eye; the sun hasn't quite risen yet but it's bright enough, and besides, every second counts when he's on a case.

Chanyeol strips his night clothes off and folds them, placing them on the corner of his bed and heading to the shower. He washes quickly while he has warm water, but remains there as it cools, more to wake himself up than anything else.

After towelling off, he takes a moment to thoroughly dry his hair before warming a glob of pomade between his palms and running it through his hair.

By the time Chanyeol leaves the washroom, sunlight is streaming into his room—a much nicer day compared to yesterday. He throws on a polo and some slacks—nothing too formal.

Before heading downstairs, Chanyeol takes a few quick notes in his book—profiles and suspicions, as well as the layout of the hotel should he need to leave before completing his investigation. He's careful to tuck it back away on the top shelf before leaving the room.

The lobby, sparkling in the light of the sun, is breathtaking. The trees filter the sunlight through their palms, casting dappled shadows on the walls and Chanyeol half expects to hear the call of a tropical bird. The half-moon window above the double doors throws multicolored light across the floor and the whole room has a pleasant, friendly glow to it.

How misleading.

At the desk, Baekhyun is hunched a little, focussed on the newspaper in front of him. His dress today is more formal, with a light grey suit jacket atop his button-up.

On the opposite side of the room, a small television is propped on a side table. Chanyeol doesn't watch television often but he instantly recognizes the set as that of The Dick Clark Show. It must be a rebroadcast because, from memory, the show has an evening timeslot. He wanders nearer as a tune begins to drift through the speakers—something he's definitely heard before.

_“You don't remember me,_ _but I remember you,_

_‘Twas not so long ago,_ _you broke my heart in two.  
Tears on my pillow, pain in my heart, caused by you.”_

“Good morning, Chanyeol.”

He looks away from the television set to find Baekhyun watching him, a well-mannered smile on his face.

The cubby holes behind have gone untouched from yesterday—with only twenty-eight rooms, Chanyeol can keep track of who checks in and out fairly easily by the keys or lack thereof.

He's unsure whether or not to bring up Baekhyun's bizarre reaction from last night when he'd confronted Chanyeol. Baekhyun is doing a marvellous job of letting it lie but Chanyeol is aching for more information.

Before he makes a definitive choice though, Baekhyun nods toward the television and asks, “Little Anthony fan?”

Chanyeol shrugs, ridding his mind of case intricacies in order to answer simply.

“I can't say I follow the music trends much. I get it all from what plays on the FM radio in my Chevy.”

“Is that so?” Baekhyun rests his forearms on the table. “I would've pictured you as a talented baritone. A real Gene Kelly type, you know?”

Chanyeol laughs and replies, “Hardly.”

“A nice suit, a pompadour; even the White girls would be swooning, I'd bet.”

Baekhyun bites his lip, a mischievous glint in his eye.

Chanyeol feels it's unprofessional but can't help blushing at the misplaced compliment.

When Baekhyun opens his mouth, Chanyeol assumes it's to make another comment, but instead he begins to sing along with the television.

 _“If we could start anew, I wouldn't hesitate,_ __  
I'd gladly take you back, and tempt the hands of fate.  
Tears on my pillow, pain in my heart, caused by you.”

To his surprise, Baekhyun's voice is soft and sweet, almost entrancing; nothing like he would've imagined.

Chanyeol is rendered speechless for a few moments, although it may just be lingering embarrassment.

“…That was…incredible,” he eventually murmurs.

Baekhyun laughs.

“My mother used to sing every day. I'm glad at least some traits of hers were passed on to me before she left.” He speaks of his mother with reverence; his memory of her is clearly one of thankfulness.

“But that's enough about me,” Baekhyun says, “What are your plans for this gorgeous day, Mr. Park?”

“I…” Chanyeol pauses to think. “I suppose I'll probably just have a look around town today.”

Baekhyun nods.

“Have you eaten yet?”

He gestures toward the dining room. Chanyeol had almost forgotten about eating, actually.

“I haven't. Is there food available?”

Baekhyun nods earnestly.

“Of course, complimentary until 9:30AM. Go have a look; you'll need a full stomach if you're planning to explore.”

Chanyeol expected maybe some oatmeal and fruit, but one entire wall of the dining hall is lined with traditional Korean food: rice, tofu, soups, and numerous side dishes—there's even a tray of assorted rice pastries. He grabs a bowl, fills it with rice and helps himself to one small dish of kimchi and one of radish.

The tables are mostly vacant, only one has more than two occupants and it appears to be a couple with three young children.

It takes Chanyeol a moment to put his finger on what's different from last night—a light breeze. There are doors on either side of the room, opening onto what looks like a courtyard.

Chanyeol steps outside and takes a deep breath of the morning air, tainted with cigarette smoke and automobile exhaust as it may be. He coughs a bit on the exhale, the cool bite of the early morning air a shock to his lungs.

The little cobblestone terrace isn't wide, but it's definitely packed with character. There's a garden surrounding nearly the entire perimeter, bursting with blossoms of all colours and sizes. Up against the hotel's back wall, the flowers have grown high enough to practically obscure the basement windows. On the opposite side, vines have crept through the trestles lining the seven-foot fence, rendering it a wall of foliage blotted with yellow and red and purple flowers. He can hear vague street noise from the main road—a city just beginning to wake.

Chanyeol sits down in one of the wicker chairs to eat, pulling over the matching side table and laying down the side dishes he's juggling before starting on his rice.

The temperature is rising steadily although the courtyard is mostly still blanketed by shade, making it quite chilly.

When Chanyeol is finished eating, he stacks his bowls on a table inside along with some other discarded dishes.

On his way out of the dining room, someone collides with him, sending him staggering a few steps back. Jongin, however, is on the floor, eyes wide in shock.

“I…I am so sorry, sir.” He quickly jumps up and brushes himself off, mortified. “Are you alright? I was just in a bit of a hurry and I wasn't watching where I was going. My apologies, again.”

He bows deeply, loose hair flopping with the movement.

Chanyeol puts a hand on his shoulder.

“I'm alright, Jongin, don't worry.”

Jongin stands up straight and nods, face beginning to redden.

“Thank you, sir.”

He excuses himself, not wanting to make further eye contact with Chanyeol. Jongin seems thoroughly harmless but there's really no way of knowing with such limited information on him.

Over at the front desk, Baekhyun is tapping the tip of his fountain pen against a blank sheet of paper, ink dotting the page while he remains lost in thought.

“How long has Jongin been working here?” Chanyeol asks as he approaches the desk.

Baekhyun looks up at him.

“Hm? …Oh!”

He pouts a little in consideration.

“About… six months now.”

Chanyeol nods. The disappearances and deaths have been spread out over the last fourteen months, which confirms that Jongin is a very unlikely suspect. If he is complacent in the deaths, there's almost no doubt he's being bullied into it. Chanyeol draws a hesitant line through the name in his mind.

“Really? He's doing an amazing job.”

Baekhyun grins.

“I agree. He had to drop out of high school several years ago so he could work in order to support his family. He worked a few odd jobs around town before showing up at my door. I can't offer him too much money, but I let him stay here and Sehun's happy to cook for him, so he sends almost everything he makes back to his family in New York. He’s a bit clumsy, but harmless.”

Chanyeol hadn't made a note of it, but Jongin had spoken English with him as well and his accent was rather understated.

“That's very admirable of him.”

Baekhyun hums in agreement and when the sound trails off, they're left standing in an awkward silence.

Chanyeol clears his throat.

“I'd better get going. So much to see; every second counts.”

Baekhyun smiles.

“Quite right. Enjoy your excursion, Mr. Park.”

Baekhyun nods and looks down at his papers again, leaving Chanyeol to excuse himself silently.

He slips out the door and is immediately met with blinding sun. He pulls the brim of his hat down and heads across the street, toward his Chevy.

When he glances back from across the street, Baekhyun is watching him. Not intently as if tracking his actions, but casually, like he's lost in thought and his eyes happened to fall upon Chanyeol.

When he notices Chanyeol looking back he dips his head, embarrassed, and lifts his hand in farewell. Chanyeol chuckles to himself, climbing into his car and starting the engine. He lets it run for a few minutes while he tries to navigate the map of lower LA.

The only place he's planning on visiting is the police station—to ask for any supplementary information—but it couldn't hurt to get to know the community as well.

The police station looks to be just on the other side of the freeway, about ten blocks away so. Chanyeol pulls away from the curb, keeping an eye out for anyone who might jump in front of his car.

When he parks, it's a good block and a half away from the station, and he wanders the rest of the way.

There's a weight in his stomach that he only now realizes was missing in the hotel—this is a White dominated area. He'd conditioned himself to feel comfortable in San Francisco but this is new, unexplored territory. The White men in San Fran like to pretend they're progressive, muttering things like 'well at least he's not Black'. Although Chanyeol will admit it's gotten better over the last twenty years, he still wouldn't call them 'accepting'. He did all the work in all of his relationship; there was no 'meeting halfway'.

Except with Jongdae.

He and Jongdae had met at the police academy. Their bond was immediate and indisputable; clandestine, some may say. Only two months apart in age, they were the only non-Whites in the class and therefore became each other's support systems. It was impossible to pick on one without inciting the rage of the other.

Most of the time Jongdae was the brunt of the jokes and abuse because he was small and had a foreign accent, but it soon became apparent that Chanyeol—six foot one with a voice as deep as the Grand Canyon—wasn't going to stand for that.

God knows what this Los Angeles precinct would be like.

He stops at the front entrance and takes a slow breath before pushing the door open.

It's busy, men in police uniforms rushing back and forth with case files and evidence bags.

Chanyeol has never appreciated the careless hurry with which stations are operated, but that's how the White men want to do it, so that's how they do it.

There's a wide desk separating the sitting area from the office area—a tall glass window protects the officer sitting inside from any approaching threats.

When Chanyeol steps closer, he glances up.

“…Hello.”

Chanyeol nods, ignoring the slight hostility in his shoulders.

“Good morning. My name is Detective Inspector Park.”

He pulls out his badge—the distinctive gold star—and flashes it to the officer.

“I'm from the San Francisco Metro division. Is there a detective available who I could speak with?”

The officer looks him up and down, skepticism plain on his face.

“…Could I see your badge again?”

Chanyeol purses his lips and holds it closer to the man's face, not loosening his grip lest it be snatched away.

A solid few seconds of silence reign before the man murmurs, “…Alright.”

He stands from his seat and heads into the back of the station. When he reappears a minute or so later, he's chuckling alongside another man—the detective, Chanyeol assumes.

He's dressed blandly, all in shades of grey with a fedora in his hand. When he spots Chanyeol, he sets the hat atop his head and nods. They both walk around the desk to stand opposite Chanyeol.

The detective offers no hand to shake.

“My name is Detective Inspector Park, from the San Francisco Metro division. I would appreciate your assistance with an investigation I'm working on.”

The man cocks an eyebrow.

“…And what case would that be?”

The man doesn't introduce himself nor does his look of skepticism dissipate.

Although, in his defence, Chanyeol's captain had never given him explicit instruction nor permission to pursue this as a case. For all intents and purposes, this is a holiday. But when Chanyeol's instinct kicks in as hard as it did with this, there's no ignoring it.

“'Legacy Hotel' on South Catalina Street. There have been a string of deaths and disappearances linked to the hotel and I'm wondering if you could provide me with any additional information.”

The man gives him something of a blank look.

“…Homicides?”

Chanyeol hesitates.

“It's unknown.”

“What do you mean 'unknown'?” The detective frowns. “Either they killed themselves, they were killed by someone else, or they died of natural causes. And I haven't heard of any potential murders or disappearances.”

“Well, actually—”

Chanyeol pauses, confusion tugging at the corner of his mind. He isn't surprised about the lack of knowledge on the murders because, officially, the deaths were by natural causes, but the missing people… that should be something they're aware of.

“Eight,” Chanyeol says, brows furrowed.

“Pardon?” the man asks.

“Eight men have gone missing in the past year. All eight of them were last seen at the Legacy Hotel. It's impossible for you not to know about this.”

The man frowns.

By now, the officer who had greeted him at registration has slunk away to sit back at his desk while Chanyeol and the detective move farther away.

“Do you have details on them?” he asks, voice lower now.

Chanyeol nods.

“Of course. Names are: Taeyong Lee, Sicheng Dong, Yuta Nakamoto—”

The detective holds up his hand, signalling Chanyeol to stop.

“Ah… I understand.”

“You've heard of them?” Chanyeol demands.

“Yes, they're…uh, not our jurisdiction.”

“Wh—!”

Chanyeol catches himself just before he starts shouting, dropping to a whisper instead.

“What do you mean by that? Your precinct has jurisdiction over the West downtown area, correct?”

The detective hesitates.

By now Chanyeol knows. He knows the classic excuses to get out of working cases about coloured people and other 'ethnics'. He knows precisely how many excuses a White person can concoct before they start to choke and make an escape, and Chanyeol is always determined to get them to that point.

“Er… Then they must be cases we haven't gotten around to yet.”

Chanyeol purses his lips. “I can't imagine the Department of Justice is very pleased with a fourteen month period of delay.”

The detective’s posture turns hostile at that.

“Look, Mr. Park. I'm sorry I can't be of any assistance. I do have many ongoing cases though, so if you don't mind I'll be heading back to my office.”

He doesn't seem to care whether or not Chanyeol minds because he turns on his heel and strides off into the bustle.

“ _Inspector_  Park,” Chanyeol murmurs, watching him go.

The officer behind the desk is pointedly averting his gaze and Chanyeol sighs, exiting back onto the sidewalk.

He had been naive to think they would help him, or to assume they would care, for that matter. He pulls a cigarette from his pocket and lights it, inhaling deeply and letting the smoke saturate his lungs. A mother and daughter pass by him and he turns his head to the side to blow it out, remembering how much he had hated the scent of smoke as a child.

He's wandering back to his Chevy, kicking stones, when he notices a large field stretching across an entire block.

A park, perhaps?

Out of interest, Chanyeol detours toward the field and the closer he gets, the larger he realizes it is.

It's not a park; it's a graveyard, and it's enormous. 

 _'Rosedale Cemetery'_  the sign reads.

Rows upon rows of headstones line the field, interspersed with palm trees and walkways.

Hesitantly, Chanyeol pushes the old gate open, careful not to let the rust rub off onto his hands.

Cemeteries have always been rather calming for him, a display of how peaceful death is compared to the turbulence of life. By adolescence, Chanyeol's fear of dying had more or less subsided and it was then that he had decided to join the police force. He'd figured his desensitization to death would allow him to remain objective in crime scenes but it had proven more complex than that. Still, he doesn't regret the path he chose.

Chanyeol wanders along the designated path until something catches his eye and he draws to the side. A small plot of land in the northwestern-most corner appears to have been designated to the Korean community and the name on the nearest headstone is instantly recognizable. 

 _'_ 김동영 _\- Kim Dongyoung, 1937-1957'_.

Underneath his name is a short blurb in Korean about how thoughtful he was and how God had taken him too soon.

He was the youngest homicide victim of the Legacy Hotel to date—only twenty years old. He'd been staying in the hotel with his family after they had been evicted from their home. According to other guests, he'd had quite an explosive argument with his father not more than an hour before he was found dead in his room.

Initially, suicide had been suspected, but the coroner had found no visible wounds and, proceeding to an autopsy, his system had tested negative for drugs. The University of Southern California, mere blocks away, happens to be one of the only institutions in the world employing the advanced new drug-testing machine from New York but they had refused to test Dongyoung's body with it, so cardiac failure was the default assumption.

He had apparently caught scarlet fever as a young child and as a result was deaf in one ear, but other than that he was perfectly healthy. Certainly not at high risk of a heart attack.

It's enervating, having to work on his own, on nothing but a theory, to prove medical examiners and other professionals wrong.

Chanyeol sighs. These past few months have been a relentless flurry of nicotine and caffeine headaches. He needs a win.

He reaches down and wipes a smear of dirt off the headstone with his thumb, the butt of his cigarette hanging from his lips.

A rustling behind him stills his movements.

Chanyeol listens, waiting for a sniffle or a prayer, but all he hears are the shuffling footsteps of a very brief visitor retreating.

He glances to the side and watches a middle-aged woman meandering between the graves. Her shoulders are slumped as if she's carrying the world's problems. Chanyeol checks the grave behind him to find a small bundle of daffodils resting against the headstone.

He moves closer. 

 _'An Seung-ho -_ 안승호 _, 1876-1955'._

It's carved into a plain granite stone.

Below that, reads: _'Father and grandfather'_. Chanyeol notes the almost pointed absence of any endearing words; no 'beloved' nor 'cherished'.

Perhaps the visitor had been a widow? Or a daughter?

He glances up again and freezes when he finds the woman watching him from across the graveyard. She doesn't smile. She doesn't wave. She only stands, appearing even smaller between the towering stone angels and palm trees.

Chanyeol breaks eye contact first when a realization dawns on him.

He looks at the grave. 

 _An Seung-ho._  

The name on the construction permit for Legacy Hotel—this man was the original owner of the hotel.

Very suddenly, Chanyeol wants to follow that woman and ask her what she knows about him, but when he scans the field for her, she's already disappeared.

A sudden cough rises through Chanyeol’s chest, causing him to wheeze with exertion for a few moments until the tickle subsides.

He sighs and checks his watch—10:15AM.

With his plans for the day already more or less accomplished, Chanyeol gets into his car and heads back to the hotel, winding around the blocks while he drives.

Upon arrival, he can see Baekhyun through the window in the exact same spot, but with a book obscuring his face.

A little bell tinkles when he enters—something he hadn't noticed yesterday. There are a handful of people milling about in the lobby, watching television and chatting.

Chanyeol wanders closer to Baekhyun, spying the words 'MURDER' from between his fingers.

“What are you reading?” Chanyeol asks after a moment of no acknowledgement.

“Hm?” Baekhyun lowers his book. “Oh!”

He holds his book up again, curling his fingers back so Chanyeol can see the cover.

“Murder in Retrospect. Agatha Christie,” Baekhyun says, “A classic if you ask me.”

Chanyeol has to laugh.

“Seems a little… ironic, doesn't it? Reading a murder novel at a time like this?”

“Mmm… Maybe,” Baekhyun hums, “I prefer to think of it as preparation. If anyone ever comes after me, I'll be ready.”

He says it so nonchalantly, as if it’s a joke. Chanyeol nods slowly.

“Incredible, isn't it?” Baekhyun shakes his head. “How Hercule Poirot can solve these mysteries through interrogation alone, no need to even visit the scene of the crime.”

Chanyeol stiffens.

“The way he creates a timeline with the evidence and the answer just… presents itself. A true feat of investigative genius.” Baekhyun sighs, seemingly love-struck with Christie's character.

Chanyeol drums his fingers against his leg, debating whether or not he should…

“I don't think those stories can really be compared to true detectives.”

He shouldn't have.

Baekhyun looks up, surprised. There's no accusation in his eyes, though, just intrigue.

“Oh? How so?”

Chanyeol clears his throat and tugs at the neckline of his shirt.

“Well… you know.”

Baekhyun shakes his head. “I really don't.”

“Well… Hercule always puts all his faith into the testimonies.”

“Of course.” Baekhyun snaps the book shut, growing engaged in the conversation. “How else would he find the guilty party?”

“Yes, yes, you're right,” Chanyeol hastens to say, “But in actuality, testimonies aren't that black and white. They're full of half-truths and broken recollections. You're always going to end up with 'I just can't remember' or 'I think he was wearing blue but it may have been grey'. Humans are imperfect; we're not machines that can spit out the precise details of everything we've experienced. And when you take all that into account, true detective work proves even more impressive than those books.”

Chanyeol stops to catch his breath while Baekhyun stares on, speechless. The little voice in the back of Chanyeol's mind is screaming 'you've just entirely blown your cover, you moron!' and pounding ruthlessly on his brain, escalating his anxiety.

“Gee… I never thought about that,” Baekhyun murmurs. “What did you say you do for work, again?”

“I'm a writer,” Chanyeol blurts. “Er… A journalist, really, but I'm working on having my novels published.”

Baekhyun perks up, suspicion all but disappearing.

He pushes his book off to the side and asks, “Really?”

Chanyeol bubbles with relief.

“Yes, I write for magazines… occasionally.”

He proceeds with caution, not wanting his fabricated tale to grow out of control.

“Mostly I just stay home and scribble in my notebook. I'm really interested in crime and mystery, if you haven't guessed.”

Baekhyun taps his fingers on the desk, voice dipping lower.

“So you travelled all the way from Seattle to write a book about my hotel?”

When Chanyeol takes his time replying, Baekhyun breaks into a cheeky grin.

“Not such a bad detective myself, wouldn't you say?”

His eyes are sparkling like a mischievous child and Chanyeol has a difficult time looking away.

“Yeah. Not bad.”

“So…” Baekhyun rests his chin delicately in one hand, fingers curling around his chin. “Do you have any friends in the heat?”

Chanyeol frowns.

“You know, like private investigators who give you the 411 on their cases.”

“I believe that's a breach of privacy and highly illegal.”

Chanyeol catches Baekhyun's eye, a smile tugging at his lips.

“So… that's a no?”

“That's a no.”

Baekhyun clicks his tongue.

“That's a bite. So where do you get all your authentic detective knowledge from then?”

He sandwiches 'authentic' with air quotations, smirking.

“The library. Public criminal files. Sometimes it's the old-fashioned stuff that provides the best material.”

Baekhyun nods.

“And are you taking notes on my hotel?”

Chanyeol chills suddenly.

“Think it'll make the next great whodunit? Because, I'm both pleased and regretful to say, I don't think this story is one worth telling.”

Chanyeol blinks, the conversation not having taken the hostile turn he had thought it would.

“O-oh? Why not?”

Baekhyun purses his lips and looks sideways.

“Well… Because nobody has been killed,” he mumbles. “There's no mystery to it, just a collection of morbid coincidences.”

Chanyeol is about to open his mouth to protest before realizing bringing up such a topic in front of other guests may not be appropriate or welcome.

“…Authors have a great imagination,” Chanyeol says, smiling tightly.

He clears his throat.

“So… Do you really man the reception area all day?”

Baekhyun shrugs, an easy grin on his face.

“No rest for the wicked.” He gestures to the television. “Besides, I've got Ed Sullivan to keep me company.”

Sure enough, some young actress Chanyeol only vaguely recognizes is sitting across from the famous talk show host, both of them engaged in conversation.

“So who was the man working the late shift last night?” Chanyeol asks.

“Oh! So you've met Kyungsoo, already.” Baekhyun looks delighted. 

 _Kyungsoo_.

Chanyeol nods.

“Yes, he seemed a little…” _How to put this politely…?_ “…tired.”

Baekhyun laughs.

“I imagine he would be. He co-owns the hotel with me.”

“Oh, really?”

Chanyeol has to admit he's surprised; the man hardly had any of the passionate spirit Baekhyun does.

“Mhm. He only works reception for four hours or so, though. Kyungsoo is a doctor, you see.”

Chanyeol's eyebrows shoot up.

Baekhyun smiles, amused by the shock.

“I know. I met Kyungsoo while he was going to school at USC. He was able to enter the country before the war began—his grades were some of the highest in Korea—and the university immediately granted him a scholarship to study medicine.”

The smile Baekhyun wears is that of a proud friend.

“Years of schooling and countless job offers later, here he is, running a hotel with me.” Baekhyun chuckles. “It does come in handy, of course. We have a medical office in the basement that guests have free access to in the case of injury or illness.”

Chanyeol stands up straighter, about to ask for more information when Baekhyun starts speaking again.

“I often feel guilty, though—as if I've coerced him into living a much less successful life than he could have been.”

Chanyeol leans one elbow on the desk.

“Is he happy?”

Baekhyun's smile is sad.

“He was. I think the deaths have begun to crush his spirit a little. As a doctor all he's ever wanted to do was help make people better; it's why we opened the clinic. So many of the people who stay with us either can't afford health care or aren't accepted into the local clinics.”

Baekhyun frowns, slouching a bit.

“Now, because of the heart attacks, people think there's some sort of curse on us. Of course…” He gives Chanyeol a sly look, “We also get the occasional curious horror fanatic. That's not too bad for business.”

Chanyeol chuckles.

“What can I say? It's intriguing.”

Baekhyun's smirk persists, eyes flicking down to Chanyeol's lips. He's closer than before, leaning over the desk slightly. Chanyeol's gaze shifts between Baekhyun's eyes, catching the bob of his throat and the tightening of his jaw in his peripherals.

A door slams shut somewhere behind them and Baekhyun jolts back upright, clearing his throat as he does so. Chanyeol feels something inside himself deflate, longing for the closeness to return.

…It's evidently been far too long since he was intimate with a woman if he's deriving excitement from proximity to a man.

Baekhyun's cheeks are tinged pink and Chanyeol can only assume he feels similarly.

With a vague taste of disgust left in his mouth, he turns to see who had made the disturbance and notices a young man striding towards the seating area from the direction of the dining room.

“Ah,” Baekhyun murmurs, “I wouldn't bother getting in with that one; he's bad news.”

The man drops into a chair and immediately begins drumming his fingers against the arm. He seems anxious, or perhaps aching for a fix.

“How so?” Chanyeol asks, eyes not straying from the man.

“Between you and me, he arrived in America in '52. Eighteen years old. Claims he got in on a scholarship but I've never seen him touch a book let alone go to classes. And I've known him for three years.”

Baekhyun pauses to make sure they're on the same page.

It takes a moment for Chanyeol to understand, but eventually it clicks—he left to escape fighting in the war.

Chanyeol looks over at Baekhyun.

“You're letting a draft dodger stay in your hotel? Isn't that unpatriotic?”

Baekhyun shrugs one shoulder, not seeming to care.

“He cooks for us all so I can forgive a little rule breaking.” 

 _Sehun_ , Chanyeol realizes, recalling the name from last night.

He must admit, he'd imagined the chef to be a little more… mature.

This boy, by Baekhyun's claims, is only twenty-four years old and he looks it. He's hit the bottle so many times his hair is blond nearly to the point of white, and a pair of glasses with transparent frames sit on his nose—altogether the very image of youth. All that's missing is a denim jacket and a cigarette between his lips.

As if he can sense Chanyeol's thoughts, his eyes flick up to the two of them—cold, dark eyes that immediately captivate Chanyeol. His look is neither friendly nor hostile, falling more into the realm of stoicism. He pulls a stick of Wrigley's from his pocket and places it in his mouth, all the while maintaining eye contact.

At this point, Chanyeol doesn't want to look away—to admit defeat.

“What?” Sehun says, popping his gum.

Baekhyun pipes up from behind Chanyeol.

“Just telling Mr. Park here what a fine, upstanding citizen you are.”

“Drop dead twice,” Sehun sneers.

“What, and look like you?” Baekhyun retorts.

It prompts a smirk out of Sehun and Chanyeol suspects this is a sort of banter they engage in regularly.

Sehun pushes up out of his chair and heads toward the desk. He rests both forearms on a stack of papers and begins drumming his fingers once again.

“Did Minseok ever get back to you about…” He spares a quick glance at Chanyeol. “…you know?”

Baekhyun sighs.

“Not yet, but I'm sure he's working on it. He knows it's important to you.”

Baekhyun directs a look at Chanyeol.

“Minseok has promised Sehun the ingredients for a special dish. They're rather expensive—something of a gift.”

Sehun whacks Baekhyun's arm.

“Give away all my secrets, why don't you?”

He turns to Chanyeol.

“Would you mind leaving us be?”

Chanyeol blinks, surprised at the abruptness.

“O-oh—Of course. I'll, um, be heading back to my room, then.”

“No, no. It's really no problem, Mr. Park,” Baekhyun says hurriedly. “Feel free to stay.”

“No.” Sehun says pointedly. “Leave.”

Baekhyun clicks his tongue.

“Would it kill you to be polite to our guests?”

Sehun rests his chin in his hand casually and replies, “I think it might.”

“Really,” Chanyeol begins backing up, “I was just about to head back to my room anyway. I'll see you later, I'm sure.”

Baekhyun purses his lips, evidently exasperated with Sehun, but nods nonetheless.

“Of course.”

As Chanyeol is walking towards the stairwell, he hears Baekhyun angrily spit in Korean, “How many times have I told you? Unbelievable.”

Chanyeol mentally files away that Baekhyun's temperament is very reasonable—if he's the murderer they are undoubtedly pre-meditated killings, not acts of passion. It's also reasonable to assume the killings would have had little to do with spite or revenge.

With his mind preoccupied, he nearly walks head-first into Minseok on his way around the first landing.

“Oh!” Chanyeol looks up, “I'm very sorry, my mind was… somewhere else entirely.”

Minseok doesn't look especially perturbed.

“Not to worry, I was just on my way out.”

“Oh?” Chanyeol quirks his head. “To where? If you don't mind me asking,” he rushes to add.

“Mm…” Minseok hesitates, polite smile faltering. “…Just out.”

Chanyeol's stomach drops in embarrassment.

“Ah. Well… Have a good afternoon.”

Minseok nods, brushing shoulders without another word.

Chanyeol doesn't move for a few moments, burning with regret.

When he continues to drag himself up the stairs he comes to a realization. Last night, Minseok had been more than willing to share his story—his hometown and personal life—right off the bat. And on top of that, Baekhyun had made it rather clear that Minseok isn't much a man of the town. Where could he possibly be going that he wouldn't want to talk about?

A gentlemen’s club, perhaps? Or somewhere worse? Or maybe his unrestrained honesty had been a result of Baekhyun's presence, or the influence of whiskey. There are too many factors at play to be certain.

Chanyeol shuts and locks his door quietly behind himself before immediately dragging his files out from their hiding place in the closet. These files were never supposed to leave the station but Chanyeol can't imagine anyone will notices they're gone, let alone miss them.

Only then does he notice that his bed has been beautifully made and, upon checking, his towels have been replaced and refolded. Jongin must be busy as anything.

Chanyeol splays the missing person reports out across his desk and, when that surface is covered, his bed. He knows this information inside out by now but with all this new knowledge of the hotel, he figures something might jump out at him.

Lee Taeyong was reported missing on April 18th, 1958, by a friend. The friend had been receiving daily telephone calls and when he three days in a row with no connection, he alerted the police. The friend’s testament that he was staying at the hotel is all they have since nobody bothered to follow up with the hotel.

John Seo was found dead in his hotel room by his fiancée on December 30th, 1957— less than one hour after his death, according to the medical examiner. 'Johnny', as he was known, had suffered from asthma which Jongdae is certain can cause cardiac arrest. Chanyeol has never heard of such a case.

Nakamoto Yuta was reported missing on September 23rd, 1957, by… the hotel manager.

…Baekhyun?

He had reportedly gone out one morning and never returned for his luggage, although that could easily be a cover-up story. While he had suffered from diabetes, surely having a heart attack in the middle of Los Angeles would have drawn someone’s attention—he wouldn’t be reported missing if that were the case.

Chanyeol rests on the side of the bed and begins tapping his foot.

A cook, a doctor, even a guest. Anyone could have feasibly committed murder. Which brings Chanyeol to his next point: If the missing persons were in fact killed here, what happened to their bodies?

After a moment of thought, he lights a cigarette and begins pacing his room.

Now… If he were a murderer living in this building, how would he do it? With so many people around, the main priority is to eliminate risk—the risk of being seen, of being heard, of being caught.

With anesthesia, one could safely ensure the victim stays quiet and still while they’re transported to wherever need be. But transported how?

Almost certainly the murders are taking place within the hotel rather than some warehouse halfway across town; Los Angeles is alive even in the dead of night.

So, inducing a coma…

Surely that can only be accomplished via injection or inhalation. That would narrow areas of danger to one-on-one situations—Kyungsoo’s office, a guest’s room, an empty lobby perhaps…

Anywhere with relative isolation.

Chanyeol sighs and grabs one of his notebooks to begin copying theories into.

This could take a while.

 

By the time he leaves his room again, papers tucked neatly away at the top of his closet and holster strapped back around his waist, it's nearly time for supper.

The sun is setting and the lobby is filled with inane chatter floating from the restaurant.

Chanyeol had meant to ask Baekhyun something about the missing person reports but when the front desk comes into view, Baekhyun is not there.

Kyungsoo, instead, stands with his eyes downcast, fingers tapping idly. He looks to be reading the same newspaper as Baekhyun was this morning, pictures of the new space rocket splayed across the page.

Before Chanyeol has the chance to say anything to him though, Baekhyun pops up beside Kyungsoo, glancing down at whatever he must have been doing on the floor.

Chanyeol jumps in fright, breath catching for a split second.

“Oh. Good evening, Mr. Park. You've been holed-up for so long, I though Minseok may have kidnapped you.”

Baekhyun chuckles and Chanyeol laughs nervously in return.

He hasn't even considered that his every movement in the hotel is subject to scrutiny since he needs to pass through the lobby to exit.

“To be honest, I took a quick nap. The drive down yesterday was rather tiring and I'm afraid the wake-up call was a bad idea on my part.”

Baekhyun nods.

“I think everyone here understands how exhausting travelling can be.”

Kyungsoo flips the page of his paper, not having looked up once.

“Anyways,” Baekhyun claps, “Why don't we have some dinner? Kyungsoo, you should join us!”

Kyungsoo blinks over at Baekhyun.

“Then who would man reception?” he asks slowly.

With tired eyes and a perpetual grimace, he doesn't seem to have any inclination to be manning the reception in the first place, but he still raises an argument.

Baekhyun shoves him a little.

“Oh, come on. You should get to know our guests! I'm sure nobody will try to check in while we're dining. And besides, you haven't eaten since noon.”

Kyungsoo purses his lips and Chanyeol can tell Baekhyun has already won the battle with his meagre rebuttal.

“…For ten minutes.”

“Twenty-five,” Baekhyun replies, turning without waiting for a debate.

Chanyeol follows him into the dining room where he heads straight for an empty table. In fact, it's the same one they had sat at last night and Chanyeol assumes it must be reserved.

He takes a seat across from Baekhyun, right beside the window. Kyungsoo sits beside Baekhyun for which Chanyeol is grateful; he is easily one of the most suspicious people in the hotel and now that Chanyeol knows he's a medical man, his suspicion has been raised exponentially.

“Beautiful day,” Baekhyun mutters, glancing out the window.

It's slightly earlier than it had been yesterday and the sky is ablaze with the setting sun. A gorgeous pink-gold glow casts upon Baekhyun, illuminating his face and softening his features. He looks like a cherub, flawless and serene.

“Absolutely,” Chanyeol agrees.

The garden, too, is lit up. The uppermost vines on the trestle are a brilliant gold like the gates of Heaven.

Chanyeol swings his focus back around. Kyungsoo's eyes are downcast, focussed on straightening out his cutlery as he would surgical tools. Unlike many others in this hotel, his moves are smooth rather than nervous and stuttered—no nicotine in his system.

Reclining in his seat, Kyungsoo seems inclined to remain silent with no trace of a conversation on his lips.

“So…” Baekhyun begins. “How have you enjoyed Los Angeles so far?”

Chanyeol shrugs.

“It's beautiful, of course, although I must admit I didn't go very far. I drove just a few blocks up and took a stroll around the parks and advantage of the weather.”

Baekhyun nods and opens his mouth to respond when Jongin steps up to their table.

“Good evening,” he murmurs, placing a pot of tea in the centre of the table.

“The usual?” He looks between Baekhyun and Kyungsoo, both of whom nod.

“Thank you, Jongin. Allow Chanyeol a few minutes with the menu if you would.”

Said menu has only just been placed before him.

Baekhyun continues the conversation while Chanyeol absentmindedly scans the names of dishes.

“Walk around the university, by any chance?”

Chanyeol perks up. He hadn’t thought of that yet.

“No. Is it ?”

Baekhyun smiles.

“Of course, it’s just one block east—Kyungsoo’s alma mater.”

Seemingly used to being spoken of, Kyungsoo takes a slow sip of the tea he had poured.

“He earned his doctorate at twenty-two. Even the White men regard him as a genius.”

Chanyeol looks over in shock.

“That's incredible. What was your research field?”

“Paralytics and analgesics,” Kyungsoo replies.

He doesn't expand.

Despite working in close quarters with post-mortem examiners for years Chanyeol still only has a rudimentary grasp of medicine.

“Interesting. So you specialize in … surgery?”

“Anesthesiology,” Yixing nods.

He could be making incredible money were he working out in the field rather than the hotel. Chanyeol now understands some of the guilt Baekhyun has put on himself. Truly, though, nothing is keeping Kyungsoo here; he could leave to pursue other work at any time.

“I’m sorry I’m late!”

At first, Chanyeol thinks it’s Jongin speaking. He belatedly realizes the English is far more heavily accented, though, and begins to turn around.

“Chanyeol, meet Zhang Yixing. Yixing, this is Park Chanyeol.”

When their eyes meet, Chanyeol instantly recognizes him as the man who had run out in front of his Chevy yesterday evening. He's far younger than he had appeared while running into traffic; twenty years old, at most.

“Lovely to meet you,” Yixing bows.

His English is stilted and awkward. He emanates something of a youthful glow and it's evident in everything he does—the dimple in his cheek, the sparkle in his eye, even the way he holds himself appears innocent.

He seats himself next to Chanyeol and clears his throat. He’s dressed simply in a light cardigan and vest—stark contrast to Kyungsoo’s dark ensemble, which Chanyeol is beginning to assume is the norm.

“You ought to be more careful crossing the road,” Chanyeol says, only realizing how rude it had sounded after it left his mouth.

Yixing frowns, quirking his head.

“I… nearly hit you with my car yesterday.”

Baekhyun’s eyes widen.

“Ah…” Yixing looks embarrassed. “I am very sorry. Kyungsoo had a patient who urgently needed medication and he sent me down to collect it from the university on his behalf.”

It’s a valid excuse that makes Chanyeol feel even worse.

Instead of apologizing, he nods.

“Is the patient alright? He didn’t require an ambulance?”

Yixing’s shoulders relax now that the fault has been turned away from him.

“No, it was a standard paralytic. Not life-threatening.”

“And… You’re a doctor?”

Yixing shrugs one shoulder.

“Not yet.”

“Yixing is on a practicum under my supervision.”

Chanyeol is surprised to hear Kyungsoo speak unprovoked.

“A student, then,” he assumes. “General medicine?”

“Anaesthesiology,” Yixing replies.

Chanyeol nods slowly.

Of course he would be, with Kyungsoo as his supervisor.

It has the potential to be a very dangerous specialty. The ability to induce unconsciousness without use of violence then kill the victim with minimal mess or struggle. That may make these assassinations—nobody out for revenge wishes their enemy to die peacefully in their sleep. Of course it could also be a torture tactic.

Chanyeol continues, “And how are you enjoying working here?”

Yixing’s expression changes again, but instead of shame, it becomes one of sheer horror. He pales, looking at Kyungsoo for help.

Chanyeol notices his hands curl into fists, clenching around the fabric of his slacks for dear life.

“Whoa, whoa,” Baekhyun says, leaning across the table. “Yixing, he isn’t interviewing you about your work ethic; it’s just a question.”

Yixing closes his eyes and nods.

“Yes, yes, of course. My apologies. I love it here.”

When he opens his eyes, he seems to have calmed himself.

Chanyeol falters. What sort of fear just paralyzed Yixing’s mind?

“Th-that’s…Wonderful,” he mutters. “And you’re from China, yes?”

Yixing nods. His posture is rigid—he’s anxious.

“Changsha. One of only three students chosen from my province to study in America.”

“That’s impressive,” he comments.

In his peripherals, Chanyeol can see Baekhyun leaning into Kyungsoo’s side, one hand perched protectively on his chest as he whispers into his ear. It’s a brazenly intimate gesture to pull in public no matter how close of friends the two may be.

He casts a quick glance toward them, feigning interest in his menu. Baekhyun’s lips are curved into a smile as he speaks, hand gradually sliding higher until his thumb brushes the exposed skin above Kyungsoo’s collar.

“…to New York or California.”

Chanyeol realizes he had missed a portion of Yixing’s sentence and blushes.

“Er… Was it much trouble entering America? What with the—” Chanyeol gestures vaguely, “—nuclear threats, and such?”

Chanyeol was afraid to use the word ‘communist’ lest it cause a backlash.

Yixing is silent for a few moments and Chanyeol worries he’s already disturbed the peace.

“…My father told me that America is using us. For political standing; positive attention.” 

_Ah._

Yixing continues, “But that does not matter. I am here to learn and I will return to my country once I am finished, to—”

Yixing decides not to take his sentence any further and snaps his mouth shut. He’s undoubtedly already had it drilled into his head that any mention of Mao or politics in general could have serious consequences.

Chanyeol nods and murmurs reassurances like ‘yes, right’.

Yixing has seemingly said his piece and is now unsure where to take the conversation.

Chanyeol clears his throat in an attempt to relieve some of the tension.

“So… Have you heard about the spacecraft they're launching tomorrow? That new agency—‘NASA’, I believe it's called—is trying to send something into orbit around the moon.”

“Very interesting,” Yixing comments, smiling politely.

“Any decisions?”

Chanyeol turns in his seat to find Jongin towering over him. He’s truly much larger than his quiet demeanour leads one to believe.

Chanyeol has hardly even looked at the menu.

“Um… Just bokkeumbap would be wonderful.”

“Care for a drink? Soju?” Baekhyun leans onto the table and rests his chin in his palm.

Chanyeol shrugs one shoulder.

“I don’t think I’ve done much to warrant a drink today.”

“Nonsense,” Baekhyun continues. “If we only ever took what we deserved, life wouldn’t be nearly as fun.”

He says it with a mischievous glint in his eye.

“Two bowls of makgeolli, please.”

Jongin nods and heads to a far table that is waving him over.

“That boy works so hard, we really don’t deserve him,” Baekhyun sighs, watching Jongin zip between tables then back to the kitchen juggling empty dishes and flicking his hair from his face.

He nearly trips over his feet more than once, yelping before he inevitably catches himself.

Chanyeol watches him pop into the kitchen through one door, and out a minute later through the other. He lingers in the doorway, grinning so widely that he has to bite lip to stop laughing. His gaze remains focussed on the kitchen—on Sehun, he assumes—for another few seconds before he lets the door swing shut. He rubs his cheek fleetingly to urge the colour out of it.

It makes Chanyeol miss being that young.

After another few minutes, their drinks are on the table—one placed before Baekhyun and one, to his surprise, before Chanyeol.

He looks up at Kyungsoo.

“Er—”

“Kyungsoo doesn’t drink.” Baekhyun cuts off his question before it’s even been asked. “It’s for you.”

He raises a spoonful to his lips and Chanyeol watches him gulp it down, throat bobbing as he swallows. He puts his spoon down and looks at Chanyeol expectantly.

“Ever had makgeolli?”

He hasn’t.

“It’s good for your health. You won’t feel as tired.”

Chanyeol curses his situation. His drink could easily have been drugged by Sehun and now if he were to refuse the offer he has no valid excuse; it would appear rude, not to mention suspicious.

Hesitantly, he takes a sip from the spoon.

It’s thick and sweet, lacking a strong alcoholic taste, but he can’t properly appreciate it with his heart beating in his throat. 

 _It would be foolish to poison someone with so many witnesses present_ , he tells himself.

Baekhyun is looking at him expectantly.

“Sweet, isn’t it? My mother would brew it frequently.”

Chanyeol forces a smile and nods.

“…Do you…invite many of your guests to dinner?”

Baekhyun laughs, a surprised sound, as though he’s been caught off guard by the question.

“Only the amiable ones. Guests who show up alone, or ones who don’t know the area. We like to think of our hotel as a community.”

A lie—Chanyeol hasn’t seen even a fraction of this much hospitality directed towards any other guest.

Kyungsoo stands abruptly.

“I believe my twenty-five minutes have expired. Good evening.”

He nods at Chanyeol.

Baekhyun grabs his hand before he can walk away and stands to meet him.

“Kyungsoo,” he murmurs, leaning in close to his side.

His hand cups Kyungsoo’s cheek and turns his head.

For a moment Chanyeol thinks they’re going to kiss and a sweat breaks out under his collar. He has no desire to experience something like this but neither can he look away; it’s similar to watching an automobile accident, he thinks.

Instead, Baekhyun simply whispers something brief, a grimace dampening his expression, and allows Kyungsoo on his way.

When he takes a seat, a small, apologetic smile replaces the grimace.

“I’m… I'm sorry.” He speaks directly to Chanyeol. “Kyungsoo doesn’t much like leaving the registration unmanned, he never means to be rude.”

Chanyeol would argue with the second point but the first is understandable.

“No need to apologize. I’m more concerned with how little he’s eaten—”

Chanyeol breaks off into a coughing fit, his chair creaking as he backs away from the table and rifles through his pockets for his handkerchief.

“Are you—”

Yixing gets cut off by another fit.

A sharp pain blooms just under Chanyeol’s heart. He thumps at his chest, suddenly horrified that he’s become their next victim and that he only has minutes to live.

He thinks of Jongdae, of his parents, of the ocean.

After a few moments though, he can breathe easier, the pain subsiding, and he feels foolish realizing it had been nothing more than a cough.

He lowers his hand, hiding the small spatter of blood from the others.

“Are you alright?” Yixing asks again.

The dining room has gone quiet.

He places a hand on Chanyeol’s shoulder and turns him around.

“I’m fine,” Chanyeol rasps.

“Does it hurt anywhere?”

Chanyeol hesitates.

“…I’m sure it’s just a cramp.”

Yixing’s face grows more serious, his medical demeanour taking over.

“Where?”

Chatter slowly begins to fill the room again.

When Chanyeol takes too long to respond, Yixing pokes him first near his heart then a little lower, under his ribs.

“There or there?”

Chanyeol gestures at his heart and Yixing sits back, looking a little less severe.

“You’re a smoker, Mr. Park?”

Chanyeol nods.

“You may want to pay Kyungsoo a visit tomorrow morning. Nothing too serious I imagine, but better safe than sorry.”

Baekhyun concurs.

“Excellent idea.”

Chanyeol’s initial reaction is to refuse but he quickly realizes he’ll need to see as much of the hotel as possible to progress any further in the case and this could be the perfect opportunity.

“Yes. Sure. Thank you, Yixing.”

Just as the conversation lulls, Jongin appears, placing Baekhyun’s dish before him—samgyetang—and making a noise of confusion when he notices Kyungsoo’s absence.

“Thank you, Jongin,” Baekhyun murmurs, gesturing for him to place the food down anyway.

Yixing stands.

“I will deliver that.”

Chanyeol isn’t sure whether he’s craving an escape from their conversation or just wants to leave the two alone.

Baekhyun drums his fingers on the table, not touching his cutlery.

“…You believe them to be murders, don’t you?”

His eyes are downcast.

“What has you so convinced? It’s not particularly comforting to think about.”

Baekhyun laughs dryly. He begins eating, not making eye contact.

Chanyeol considers his answer for a moment.

“…The disappearances.”

Baekhyun drops his spoon and looks up in shock.

“Disappearances?”

Chanyeol frowns. If that was false surprise, Baekhyun is certainly an exceptional actor.

“You don’t know? Eight of them around this area.”

“Where did you hear about that?” Baekhyun asks. 

 _Shoot_.

“It was in the ‘The Olympian’—the Washington news. I only assumed it would be big news here.”

It’s a lie, of course. Chanyeol is the one who had drawn the missing reports back to the hotel in the first place.

Baekhyun looks nervous and Chanyeol is unsure whether it’s the expression of an innocent or a guilty man. He could be nervous about leaving a trail of clues just as easily as he could be scared of losing his hotel to this tragedy.

Before the conversation can progress, Yixing returns to his seat and cuts it off indefinitely.

Baekhyun’s eyebrows are knit as he picks up his spoon and continues eating the broth.

 

The rest of the night’s proceedings are uneventful—nothing of consequence—and when Chanyeol returns to his room, everything is as it had been.

He walks toward the window and looks down. A stray cat is curled up on a flattened out cardboard box in the alley, looking far more serene in its hostile environment than Chanyeol feels in his.

He falls into the armchair and instinctively reaches for a cigarette.

He lets it sit between his lips, blowing the smoke out of the corner of his lips as he wrings his hands.

Profiles…

Kyungsoo: concise. He's emotionally distant and precise as well, a deadly concoction. Not to mention he's skilled in medicine and surgical practices, and has access to drugs and chemicals. And not only is he a doctor, he's an anesthesiologist. Killing numerous victims would be a much simpler task with an advanced knowledge of anesthetics—a simple injection and the victim would go to sleep and never awaken.

Overall, very likely suspect.

Yixing: enigmatic. So far, it's impossible to tell whether his naivety is genuine or an act. However, his build is rather slim and judging by the incident out on the street, he has somewhat poor observational skills and high impulsivity. If he is a murderer, he has someone very talented brushing away his sloppy footprints. And he’s blatantly afraid of something in the hotel; a casual interview is a necessity—it could be all he needs to crack this case.

Overall, not a likely suspect.

Sehun: aggressive and on edge. He seems to be in constant fluctuation between paranoia and relaxation. Almost definitely a drug user. Also handles all of the hotel's food; there's a possibility that he administers poison. If the poison didn’t take effect right away, guests would have had the opportunity to finish their meals and return to their rooms before they began exhibiting symptoms… But that's likely too risky of a move.

Still, he seems to lack empathy; a potential suspect.

Chanyeol lies back. He hasn't made as much progress today as he should have and he's trying to resist any self-deprecating thoughts.

 

It takes significantly longer to get to sleep tonight, spending nearly two hours tossing and turning and analyzing every bit of information he's received throughout the day.

Where had Minseok been headed?

Who was that woman in the graveyard?

What had Baekhyun been whispering to Kyungsoo about?

His thoughts become erratic and eventually devolve into filth.

Behind his eyelids—Baekhyun holding Kyungsoo’s face, leaning in to kiss him gently as if he were a woman, lingering on his lips then kissing lower. Down his neck and across his bare chest.

Kyungsoo’s eyes flutter shut and his lips part.

Baekhyun begins to undo his pants and palm at his… his erection, and—

Chanyeol has to grit his teeth and clench his fists, actively drawing his mind away from the… vulgarity.

His breathing evens, his muscles relax, and when he finally does begin to drift off, it's with thoughts of Jongdae in his mind—of home.


	3. Chapter 3

Day 3 — October 10, 1958

 

Chanyeol wakes naturally at quarter past eight.

He remembers dreaming but he can’t recall what of.

For such an old-fashioned hotel, the bed is surprisingly comfortable, so he stays for a few more minutes, looking from the ceiling over to the window.

The room is filled with a pale, cold light—no sunshine.

He rubs his eyes and runs through his plan for the day. The university is a priority, he might be able to get some information out of them, and he’s also promised a visit to Kyungsoo’s office. It wouldn’t be a bad idea to solidify the layout of the hotel and perhaps draw out a map. The rest he can play by ear.

Chanyeol swings his legs over the edge of the bed and lights a cigarette. He takes a drag then holds it away from his face, examining it.

Such a small object with such a powerful grip on the world—but the satisfying burn in his lungs is worth it every time.

He lets the smoke out slowly, obscuring his view.

After he’s washed up and dressed for the day—he’s opted for a suit as the air looks like it carries a chill—he pats his pockets for his badge and wallet, and for the revolver holstered to his waist, and heads for the door.

With one hand on the handle he pauses.

Chanyeol reaches for his notebook and tears a sheet out. He writes a quick note before dropping it on the bedside table with a dollar bill.

_'Jongin,_

_Go buy yourself some pomade._

_Chanyeol.'_

Instead of heading downstairs, when Chanyeol reaches the staircase he turns and begins climbing.

 Understanding the layout of the hotel is a necessity if he wants any chance at solving this case. A quick walk around reveals the third floor to be identical to the second right down to room placement, so Chanyeol continues on to the top floor.

A pair of sturdy wooden doors with frosted glass panes separate the landing from the rest of the floor, locked tight when Chanyeol gives them a tug.

Clearly uninhabited.

He squints through the frosted glass but with the lights turned out, it all just looks like a smear of black.

The lock and keyhole piece is at least fifty years old if not older… Easy enough to pick.

Satisfied, Chanyeol sticks his hands in his pockets and descends the stairs.

He coughs gently into his shoulder, chest aching in reminder of last night.

In the lobby, he lingers behind one particularly tall potted plant, the wide leaves more or less hiding his face as he peeks around just far enough to have a look at the mail slots. As expected, the entire top row—401-409—still have room keys sitting within collecting dust.

Uninhabited indeed.

Before any sort of social interaction, Chanyeol helps himself to breakfast—a bowl of soup.

The courtyard out back is cooler than yesterday—lacking sun—but much more populated.

Every table is occupied and Chanyeol settles for standing, leaning against the brick wall of the hotel.

He takes his time eating, spending most of his concentration on observing the conversations around him.

A pair of older men discussing the merits of the Democrats for the upcoming election.

A mother trying to assist her young daughter with her chopsticks.

A teenaged couple bemoaning  the girl’s parents’ disapproval of their relationship.

The only striking deduction Chanyeol makes is that, of the guests he’s seen, he himself is the most likely target for a murder.

It isn’t surprising—he’s been lavished with attention since the moment he stepped through the hotel doors. Just good luck, he supposes.

“Sleep well?”

Chanyeol jumps, spinning around to see Minseok right beside him.

His grin widens when he sees that he’s frightened Chanyeol—a gummy smile that lights up his eyes.

“You look well-rested, is all,” he continues, a little smugly.

Minseok isn’t looking too bad himself; evidently wherever he had gone yesterday had had a positive impact on his mood. Perhaps it was a gentlemen’s club after all.

“I… Thank you, I did sleep rather well. And yourself?”

Chanyeol takes one last spoonful of soup before setting his bowl aside.

“Just fine,” Minseok replies, casting his gaze over to the high trestles.

When Minseok doesn’t seem to want to elaborate, Chanyeol speaks.

“…You’ve been here two years, you said?”

Minseok nods.

“Who does the gardening? Surely it can’t be Jongin.”

The poor boy would likely trip and tear all the vines off the trestle. Perhaps they have someone come in.

Minseok purses his lips.

“It’s Kyungsoo, I believe.”

At Chanyeol’s shocked expression, he chuckles.

“I know; doesn’t look like the type, does he?”

Minseok pulls a cigarette from his pocket and holds it out to Chanyeol between two fingers.

Chanyeol surveys him briefly—expectant gaze, casual stance… safe.

He accepts it with a nod and lights it, holding his lighter out for Minseok afterwards.

They stand in silence for several minutes, ashes drifting to the ground just as the leaves on the maple trees are beginning to. The sun has begun to peek out from behind its blanket of cloud and light up the courtyard.

Minseok’s eyes are shut, uncomfortably at ease in such a place, which naturally means he’s either involved or totally oblivious.

“…Minseok?”

“Mm?” he hums, cigarette hanging lazily between his lips.

“Why is Baekhyun so eager to interact with me? Only me.”

He peeks up at Chanyeol with one eye.

“I think,” he mumbles, before taking his cigarette between his fingers, “that when he moved to America, he was all alone. Kyungsoo had only just graduated when Baekhyun assumed management of the hotel… I think he only wishes for nobody to be lonely.”

Interesting… Minseok’s story matches Baekhyun’s exactly.

Either Baekhyun’s been maintaining a deep-rooted lie, or he and Minseok are in on it together. Or perhaps it’s simply the truth, which is, irritatingly, becoming more of a possibility.

“Thank you, Minseok.”

“Don’t thank me,” he chuckles, “Thank God someone cares.”

With that, he walks off back toward the building, cigarette between his lips and hands in his pockets.

Chanyeol can’t help watching him—such a curious man.

He holds off for a few moments before grabbing his bowl and following him in.

Minseok is no longer in sight so Chanyeol drops his dishes on a table near the kitchen and heads through into the lobby.

Baekhyun has his back turned, resting against the desk with the telephone in one hand and the other on his hip.

“Righto. Yeah. It’s fine.”

Baekhyun begins curling the telephone cord around his finger.

“If anything changes just gimme a bell. Sure. See you.”

He drops the telephone into its cradle and sighs.

Chanyeol walks a little closer and Baekhyun perks up.

“Morning. How did you sleep?”

“Well, thank you,” he answers. “Who was that?”

He nods at the telephone.

Baekhyun grins.

“Nosy, aren’t you? You’d better hope it doesn’t get you into trouble.”

Chanyeol is unsure whether it’s endearment or a threat.

Baekhyun continues.

“It was the factory that delivers the kitchen’s ingredients. He said they’ll have to delay our order by a few days,” he grimaces, “but what can we do?”

Chanyeol doesn’t respond.

Really, he’s beginning to grow annoyed. Every time he overhears or finds something he expects to be incriminating evidence—or even a clue—it turns out to only be something painfully mundane.

And yet… he still has an odd feeling about the place. Something’s going on, and it’s even more infuriating knowing he isn’t privy to it.

“Anyhow…” Baekhyun says after a moment of silence, “You have an appointment with Kyungsoo, do you not? Allow me to show you down.”

Instead of walking toward the staircase, Baekhyun takes only a few paces away from the desk and ducks behind a jutting wall.

Chanyeol follows him and notices a door he hadn’t before.

Baekhyun fiddles with a key ring on his belt, eventually unlocking the door and holding it open for Chanyeol.

“After you,” he gestures.

The stairs are wooden and weak-looking, built with little regard for appearance, unlike everything else in the hotel.

Chanyeol takes a step and the board creaks beneath him. He continues lower until he hears the door click shut behind him, Baekhyun following a few steps behind.

They come down into what looks like a storage room. Bags of rice and dried vegetables and herbs are stacked along one wall while mops, brooms, and bleaches sit along another.

Nothing incriminating, but that was to be expected.

Baekhyun lays his hand on the small of Chanyeol’s back, guiding him forward through the door to the hallway.

 The hallway is dark—red brick walls lit by naked bulbs—but it’s spotlessly clean. No cobwebs or dust to create the eerie atmosphere he’d been anticipating. It appears to be a single windowless hallway branching into four or five different rooms.

“I can show you around later if you’d like.” Baekhyun’s voice startles him.

“…Yes.”

 Chanyeol doesn’t want to be caught snooping in an unfamiliar area—that could be deadly—so he’d better take advantage of what’s offered.

“I’d like that.”

They continue around the corner, Baekhyun’s palm warm and strangely reassuring on his back.

A door somewhat ahead of them creaks open and Chanyeol stops instinctively.

Kyungsoo steps out and glances up at them, dressed in his usual black, but with a white lab coat  over it all.

Baekhyun’s hand slides pointedly down and off Chanyeol’s person before he clears his throat.

“I thought I’d escort Chanyeol down here myself,” he says.

Kyungsoo nods.

Chanyeol is beginning to get the idea that Kyungsoo isn’t especially fond of Baekhyun—their bold intimacy had been initiated by Baekhyun, and  any talk of their camaraderie has originated from Baekhyun alone. Perhaps there is a hidden hierarchy Chanyeol hasn’t yet considered.

He makes a mental note to map out what he knows of everyone’s relationships.

“…Well,” Baekhyun continues, “if that will be all, I’ll return upstairs.”

He flashes Chanyeol a shy smile, perhaps silently wishing him luck.

Baekhyun continues walking along the hall rather than retreating back the way they came, so Chanyeol can only assume the main staircase also leads to the basement.

“In here,” Kyungsoo mumbles, turning back into the room he’d come from.

Chanyeol follows him.

It’s a waiting room—very orderly and much brighter than the rest of the basement.

He hears engines roaring past and glances out the window. The main road is mere paces away and Chanyeol puts together that this room is directly beneath the entrance of the hotel.

“You can take a seat if you'd like,” Kyungsoo offers, heading through to his office.

Chanyeol hangs his hat from one of the hooks and takes a seat next to a side table stacked with newspapers.

The top paper reads: ‘MOON ROCKET PERILED AS JUPITER BLOWS UP’.

Chanyeol frowns. The rocket they sent up last night had exploded; what a shame.

Beneath that is what really captures his attention, though: ‘Mourning Thousands Walk Past Pope’s Bier’.

Chanyeol picks up the paper and begins reading.

Pope Pius XII has died—a heart attack.

Chanyeol scarcely follows religious current events, but apparently he had been sick for years.

Chanyeol sits back on the chair.

If even the most blessed and holy men leave this Earth as nothing more than sickly and weak, what hope is there for the rest of them?

Kyungsoo opens the door that connects to his office and murmurs, “I’m ready for you.”

The office itself is clearly the habitat of a sterile professional: soulless and white. A counter of carefully organized jars and bottles runs the length of the room, with an examining table by the far wall and a stool placed before it.

No ashtray to be seen.

There’s another door set into the wall and Chanyeol is instantly curious what lies behind it.

Kyungsoo gestures for him to sit upon the examining table.

When he walks toward the mysterious door, Chanyeol’s gaze trails behind him.

He opens it just enough to wheel out a small metal instrument table. Chanyeol can only see inside for a matter of seconds, but it appears to be for storage of medicine and other various tools.

He imagines if it had contained anything as blatant as a corpse, he wouldn’t have risked opening the door at all.

Kyungsoo grabs a pad of paper and pen and sits himself on the stool.

“Are you more comfortable speaking in English or Korean?”

“Er… English.”

He wouldn’t have a hope of understanding medical terminology in Korean.

Kyungsoo nods.

“So, Yixing mentioned that you’re a smoker. Filtered or unfiltered?”

“Unfiltered,” he answers.

Kyungsoo takes a note.

Chanyeol almost expects a patronizing monologue on how much healthier the new filtered cigarettes are.

“He also told me you were coughing for a good twenty seconds, accompanied by chest pain.”

Chanyeol nods, although it hadn’t been a question.

“Has this cough been persistent?”

“…Yes.”

Many smokers cough, it’s natural.

“And what about the chest pain?”

Kyungsoo is scribbling on his pad of paper as he talks.

“I have chronic chest pains, but not usual accompanying coughs.”

“Did you cough up anything? Blood or mucous?”

“Blood… Hardly a spatter.”

It’s because his throat grows dry and raw.

Kyungsoo sets the pad of paper on his knee before writing something else—utterly illegible. In fact, his shorthand is so unclear, Chanyeol can’t even tell if his notes are English or Korean.

“And when you coughed, did you feel anything in your throat? Or was it dry?”

“I wouldn’t say  _‘dry’._ ”

Kyungsoo mutters “okay” under his breath and sets his paper down on the desk.

It catches Chanyeol off guard how much more… loquacious Kyungsoo becomes when his interactions are a matter of medicine. The lack of expression and flat tone stay the same, but his verbiage has grown exponentially.

Kyungsoo stands up and Chanyeol spreads his knees slightly to give him room to stand between them.

He gestures for Chanyeol to lean forward then takes hold of his face. Using his thumbs, he pulls the skin under his eyes down slightly, studying both eyes.

Satisfied by his findings, he steps back.

“Would you mind removing your shirt?”

Chanyeol stills for a moment before murmuring, “Yes. Yes, of course.”

He shrugs off his jacket, laying it beside him on the examination table before he works on unbuttoning his shirt.

From the instrument table, Kyungsoo picks up a stethoscope and tucks in the earpieces.

He watches as Chanyeol pulls his shirt apart and untucks it, laying it alongside his jacket.

Chanyeol shivers, partially from the cold, partially from Kyungsoo’s unmoving gaze.

He slides his undershirt up his chest and holds it there with one hand.

Kyungsoo briefly rubs the chest piece against his sleeve to warm it up before moving closer.

He positions it just above Chanyeol’s breast.

“Take a few regular breaths,” Kyungsoo murmurs, eyes meeting Chanyeol’s.

Chanyeol feels his heart actively begin to beat a little quicker and glances away, inspecting the medicine cabinet instead.

“…And a deep breath.”

Chanyeol inhales and holds it for a moment before letting it out.

“Good. Again.”

He complies.

“Any pain?”

Chanyeol nods.

He’s had consistent cramps for years—passed down from his father.

“With the deep breaths. Just here.”

He taps beneath where Kyungsoo is listening.

Kyungsoo moves the stethoscope under his breast, pressing it into the skin.

“Again.”

He repeats the action several times on both sides of Chanyeol’s chest before walking around the examining table to stand behind him.

Chanyeol is instantly uneasy. Having anyone behind him in an isolated room is unnerving—let alone a suspect in a murder case.

Images flash through his mind—his lifeless body, chest dyed by blood, tossed in the back room.

Jongdae would never see him again.

Chanyeol turns his head just enough to catch sight of Kyungsoo in his peripheral vision.

Kyungsoo rests one hand gently on Chanyeol’s shoulder and uses the other to press the stethoscope just beside his shoulder blade.

“Another breath.”

Under his shoulder blade.

“Again.”

And the other side.

Kyungsoo drops the stethoscope back onto the table quite violently, shocking Chanyeol with the clang.

He walks to the counter and takes note of his findings. While he writes, he explains.

“I suspect pleurisy. It’s a simple inflammation in the lung. I can give a standard antibiotic injection and it should clear up within a few days.”

He turns back to look at Chanyeol.

“Is that alright?”

His tone implies he doesn’t care whether Chanyeol agrees to it or not.

Needles aren’t a fear, per se, but Chanyeol’s stomach never seems to agree, pitching a fit when it comes time for the injection. Under these circumstances as well… There’s no telling if the injection is truly what Kyungsoo claims.

In any case, he’ll have time to think it through.

“…Fine,” he replies, straight-faced.

Kyungsoo walks over to the corner of the office and picks the phone up off the cradle, ringing up the number with deft fingers.

“May I speak with Yixing?”

He pauses.

“Yixing, can you fetch me an ampoule of erythromycin gluceptate?”

Chanyeol takes the chance to analyze the room more closely. The windows lining the upper part of the wall are identical to the ones in the waiting room, except these are filled with a thick frosted glass so no passersby can peek into the office.

The door has a modern deadbolt lock on it, providing exceptional privacy.

Nails jut from the wall, hanging from which are a few of Kyungsoo’s framed credentials.

“Yixing will be an hour or so. Feel free to return later in the afternoon for your injection.”

Chanyeol nods.

Satisfied with the informal postponing of their meeting, Kyungsoo ducks into the back room with his notes and slams the door, leaving Chanyeol to dress in silence.

 

The university campus is impressive enough, though this is only half.

Chanyeol momentarily removes his hat to provide more shade as he glances up at the sign stretching almost the full length of the building.

‘School of Medicine’.

It’s quite a new building but it’s cold and unwelcoming, looking suitably as if it trains strict professionals.

He fans himself with his fedora, the sun having become blistering within the last hour or so.

Before Chanyeol enters, he drops his cigarette onto the street and grinds his heel into the smouldering butt.

The halls are cool, all tile and marble, and he’s overly aware of his shoes clicking as he walks; it’s mid-day on a Friday and classes are still in.

He notices the reception at the end of the hall, and watches the woman behind the glass eye his approach.

“…May I help you, sir?”

“My name is Detective Inspector Park.” He flashes his badge. “Would you mind if I asked you a few questions about one of your students?”

The woman’s eyes widen.

Chanyeol is about to reassure her that it’s not a grave issue, but quickly decides that it might not aid compliance, so he says nothing. Since he has no warrant, technically he has no right to any information, but if the receptionist doesn’t know that…

She looks down hesitantly and Chanyeol stands up taller, glancing down at her from his full height and lowering his voice.

“I was sent from San Francisco to investigate this case. I would greatly appreciate your compliance.”

“Er… W-we…”

She looks around; nobody else appears to be in the office.

“…I-I’ll see what I can do, Detective. May I have the student’s name?”

“Yixing Zhang.”

She covers her stunned look quite well, skittering away to the back where Chanyeol hears her opening up a filing cabinet.

When she returns, she slides the file through the opening in the glass and pushes up her glasses, guilt plain on her face and in her actions.

Chanyeol wastes no time, scanning the papers for any useful information. Birthdate, address, immigration documents… There’s an image of Yixing dressed in Chinese clothing attached with a bulldog clip.

He flips the page and finds a list of signed and approved pick-ups Yixing has made from the medical supply room.

Chanyeol reads them all—halothane, succinylcholine, phenobarbital…

As far as he knows, they’re all basic anaesthetics and analgesics.

At the very bottom of the list is a drug Chanyeol recognizes the name of.

Erythromycin.

It’s the antibiotic Kyungsoo had asked Yixing to pick up, which means he’s already come and left.

It’s settling, knowing they weren’t intending to poison him.

Yet…

Chanyeol slides the paper back through the window.

“Is there any chance you have records of previous students? From four or five years ago? Kyungsoo… Do, I believe.”

The woman bites her lip.

“I… I’ll have to check.”

She takes Yixing’s file and heads into the back again.

Students begin filing into the hallways, enormous textbooks tucked under their arms, and Chanyeol begins tapping his foot.

He’s far more on edge when people are observing him, even if just casually.

The receptionist doesn’t meet his gaze when she returns.

“We—I found a file of his from the alumni association, but it doesn’t hold quite as much personal information I’m afraid.”

She slides it towards him slowly.

A very small image of Kyungsoo resides in the corner, his face upturned and stance somewhat proud, although his expression shows no sign of it.

The paper simply states Kyungsoo’s association with the school of medicine: his years of study, his current address, and his license to have medicine and equipment delivered to the campus for personal use; nothing about his life before USC.

A loud clang behind him followed by an ‘oof’ draws Chanyeol’s attention away from the page.

He glances around to see a student, books spread around him, in a heap on the floor, and a tall brunette boy sneering as he walks away.

Chanyeol leaves the record on the counter and rushes to help the student up.

“Are you alr—?”

He freezes when Yixing’s eyes meet his own.

“O-oh. Mr.… Park.”

Chanyeol internally curses several times over before faking a grin.

“Er—Yixing…”

Yixing quickly collects his books and climbs to his feet, mouth settling into that polite, Mona Lisa-esque smile of his. He brushes the dirt from his pants with one hand.

“I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Yes, yes. Baekhyun recommended I give the campus a visit. He told me it was stunning and I must admit it wasn’t a lie.”

Yixing nods.

“Are you…” he gestures to the spot where Yixing had fallen, “…alright?”

“Of course,” Yixing replies.

His tone implies the rest:  _Why wouldn’t I be? This happens every day_.

“…Sir?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Chanyeol sees the receptionist trying to get his attention and he can only thank his stars she hadn’t just called him ‘officer’ or ‘detective’.

“If you don’t mind, I need—”

“My apologies, miss,” Chanyeol abruptly cuts her off.

“I’ve found my acquaintance. Thank you for all your help, though.”

Chanyeol turns on his heel and strides down the hallway, leaving the poor woman confused.

“You… were looking for me?” Yixing asks, practically jogging to keep up with Chanyeol’s strides.

Chanyeol waves a hand.

“Just interested whether or not you were in class. Kyungsoo called earlier for a bottle of something or other; it was purely curiosity.”

Yixing accepts the excuse.

“And how are you feeling, Mr. Park? Pleurisy, I heard?”

Chanyeol shrugs.

“I’ve certainly felt worse.”

They’re almost at the entrance now and Yixing begins to fall back.

“Alright…” he murmurs. “Well, I have one more lecture today; I suppose I will see you later.”

Chanyeol tosses a reply and a wave over his shoulder before he darts out the door and around the side of the building towards the main road.

A block down, he stops to catch his breath, leaning against a storefront. He fans himself with his hat for a few moments, sweltering in the heat, before he notices a payphone across the street and pauses.

Really, he should give Jongdae a buzz and update him on the situation.

He fishes around in his pocket and draws out a single dime.

Even though they've been fighting, there's no reason Chanyeol shouldn't check in and let Jongdae know, at the very least, that he's alive.

With a sigh, he picks up the phone and drops in the coin, waiting for the dial tone. He turns the rotary and rests back against the glass of the booth, tapping his foot as he waits.

_“Please deposit ten cents for a long-distance call.”_

Chanyeol sighs and fishes around for another coin.

After it drops into the box, the dial tone returns.

_“…Hello?”_

Jongdae’s voice sounds groggy, as if he hasn’t had enough sleep.

“It’s me,” Chanyeol responds.

There’s a pause before Jongdae sighs heavily.

_“So you aren't dead.”_

The two of them hadn’t parted on the best of terms—if he remembers correctly, Jongdae’s final jab had been: “ _Then you’re a fool! A fool who deserves what comes to him!”_

“…Not dead,” Chanyeol confirms.

_“Are you planning on telling me what’s going on any time soon or are you going to continue speaking in two-syllable sentences?”_

Chanyeol hadn’t really considered what he was going to tell Jongdae.

“I have pleurisy.”

He squeezes his eyes shut. That was not what he was intending to say.

“I mean… I’m fine, but… th-the investigation is… fine.” Chanyeol hangs his head. “I’m okay, is what I meant. How are you?”

Jongdae stays silent for a good moment.

_“…Um… I’m good. Working on a new case. Nothing exciting.”_

Chanyeol shifts his weight between his feet.

“No exciting news from me either.”

_“So you’re coming home soon?”_

Chanyeol sighs. He decides not to tell Jongdae that he is most likely the next target—if anything, it would just reinstate their argument.

Jongdae may be stubborn, but he has a caring heart and Chanyeol’s best interests in mind.

“…Soon enough. Three days?”

Chanyeol’s intention is to stay until he’s solved this case.

 _“…Stay safe,”_ Jongdae murmurs and Chanyeol smiles.

He always sounds so embarrassed saying sentimental things.

“Don’t I always?”

Jongdae snorts.

_“I wouldn’t say that.”_

“Yeah, me neither,” Chanyeol chuckles.

They fall into a silence that hurts Chanyeol’s heart. He wishes he were back home laughing with Jongdae, but this case is too important to abandon now.

 _“…Well, I should finish up this paperwork,”_ Jongdae sighs.

Chanyeol nods.

“Yes. Yeah, yeah, good idea.” He clears his throat. “I’d better cut it too. I’ll call you later. Tomorrow.”

 _“Tomorrow,”_ Jongdae confirms, and the line cuts out.

Chanyeol hangs the telephone up in its cradle and pushes the door of the booth open.

He navigates back to the hotel, mind stuck on thoughts of Jongdae rather than the case.

When he enters the lobby, it’s mostly empty and the television is off.

Sitting on the front desk is a radio, though, which Baekhyun is singing absentmindedly along to as he writes.

_“For your love…_

_Oh, I would do anything,_

_I would do anything…_

_For your love.”_

His voice floods Chanyeol’s chest, leaving comfort in its wake.

Baekhyun is bobbing his head along to the easy rhythm, while filling out what looks like a ledger. Chanyeol gets closer and confirms that he is indeed copying numbers over into several columns, quickly and methodically.

“…Accounting?” Chanyeol asks and Baekhyun smiles, keeping his eyes on the book.

“I find it relaxing. Numbers are constant, they never change, and I can trust them. One plus one will always equal two.”

Chanyeol nods but the topic is not one that he wishes to continue.

Baekhyun pauses and looks up, seemingly sensing Chanyeol’s disinterest, and his posture changes in an instant. He pushes the book aside and rests his elbows on the desk, looking up at Chanyeol like a puppy bowing before its anticipated play session.

His eyes are bright with life and Chanyeol is just as enchanted as he is envious. 

_“For your kiss…_

_Oh, I would go anywhere,_

_I would go anywhere…_

_For your kiss.”_

The radio trills beside him while he holds Baekhyun’s gaze.

“Has anyone ever told you your eyes are mesmerizing?” Baekhyun murmurs and Chanyeol’s cheeks grow hot. “They look like they hold a story… I want to hear it.”

Finally breaking eye contact, Chanyeol replies, “I wouldn’t claim my story is an exciting one.”

Baekhyun searches his face.

“…Sit with me.”

He nods toward the cluster of chairs near the television.

Baekhyun walks around the desk, lowering himself into an armchair and waiting for Chanyeol to do the same. Chanyeol does so slowly, ensuring he can see the exit from his seat before he tries to get comfortable.

Baekhyun crosses his legs and lifts a hand to his chin, tapping gently while he considers what to say.

“So… What’s your tale, nightingale?”

Chanyeol laughs nervously.

“What would you like to know?”

“You,” Baekhyun replies without hesitation. “I’d like to know you.”

The eye contact is blazing and Chanyeol has to look away in order to start talking.

“Well… My mother was born in Washington,” Chanyeol says. “Her parents were some of the first immigrants to North America after the turn of the century. The boat docked in Seattle and that's where they stayed. She didn't meet my father until the 1920’s, when he moved over here as a young man. Then I came along in 1927 and we headed north, into Vancouver.”

It's half the truth. His mother was born and raised in San Francisco, never straying outside of California for as long as she's been alive.

Baekhyun's eyebrows shoot up.

“No joke?”

Chanyeol shrugs.

“Wow. So you’re a genuine American.”

“You could say.”

Baekhyun begins to tap his foot.

“Well, then my next question is why you’re staying in this hotel?”

Chanyeol frowns, trying to see the reason behind the question.

“…Like I’ve said. It’s an interesting set of circumstances and I wanted to get a closer look.”

Baekhyun shakes his head.

“But if you truly believe it to be murder, aren't you afraid of being killed?” 

 _Ah_.

Chanyeol purses his lips. He already knows that he fits the bill—age, sex, race… everything lines up. He's the perfect candidate for abduction or murder; but it’s the only way to get answers. Of course, it doesn't hurt that Chanyeol is a trained private investigator with nine years of combat experience under his belt; that's something none of the other victims had.

He intends to survive.

“If I’d stayed somewhere else, I wouldn’t have much of a story, would I? And besides… I don't really know how to explain it… I guess you could say the prospect excites me.”

Baekhyun's jaw drops.

“Exciting? The possibility of being murdered?”

He shakes his head.

“You're a bit of an odd ball, you know that?”

Chanyeol grins.

“A true journalist never shies away from a story, no matter the circumstances.”

“Count me out of journalism, then.”

They're both laughing quietly and when it fades, it becomes a comfortable silence.

Chanyeol notices Baekhyun's gaze dip and realizes his dimple must have appeared in his cheek. A second later the gaze roams lower, to his chest, then very quickly back up to his face. Chanyeol bites his cheek.

The silence stretches on for another few moments before Chanyeol decides to reciprocate the curiosity.

“…And what about you?” he asks. “What’s your story?”

Baekhyun sighs.

“…I was a soldier.”

He says it as if it’s the only thing of consequence that happened in his young life.

Chanyeol nods for a few seconds before pausing. There's no way Baekhyun is old enough to have fought in the Second World War.

“…The Korean War?” he asks.

Baekhyun nods and Chanyeol's eyebrows shoot up.

He would have guessed by the English proficiency that Baekhyun had been raised in America, not Korea.

It makes Chanyeol the slightest bit jealous; despite his purely Korean lineage, he feels no cultural ties to the country like everyone else he knows, and he thought he had found a similar story in Baekhyun. Even Jongdae had moved over in early adolescence.

“Really? Which division?”

Baekhyun grins.

“You a military man, too?”

Chanyeol chuckles, “No, no. It’s just… Your English is incredible. Unaccented.”

Baekhyun ducks his head.

“You think? It was my area of study before I enlisted. I’ve always been fascinated by languages.”

He’s trying to hide a smile, the flattering having tinged his face pink.

“It was… well, I wouldn’t say  _luck_ , but…I was injured during duty and managed to obtain refugee status and come to America.”

“…Injured?”

Chanyeol had never noticed any semblance of a limp or other restriction.

Baekhyun nods.

“Shot. In the arm.”

He taps his left arm just below his shoulder but makes no move to show Chanyeol the scar, raising scepticism.

“Boy, did it ever hurt,” he chuckles. “But it could easily have been here.”

Baekhyun points to his heart.

“Or here.”

His head.

Chanyeol takes a moment to wonder how much of what Baekhyun says is actually the truth. He assumes the basic facts are true—why fabricate a lie to remember if the truth is harmless and unobtrusive in the first place?

He hasn’t even considered that Baekhyun may not be involved in the killings at all, but his stories all seem so genuine and well-meshed—Chanyeol might need to start giving him the benefit of the doubt.

“…Why 'Legacy Hotel'?” he asks suddenly, steering them back to conversation.

Baekhyun shrugs one shoulder.

“It was named by the previous owners. I suppose it meant a lot to them, having something to attach their names to; a sense of pride in the community.”

Baekhyun drums his fingers against his leg, looking past Chanyeol.

“Too bad they weren't able to take care of her anymore,” he hums, stroking a hand along the fabric of his armrest. “Too bad for them, of course; I'm on cloud nine.”

He grins, looking back to Chanyeol.

“Having something to channel my energy into is exactly what I need.”

Chanyeol nods; he can understand that feeling.

Baekhyun’s attention is suddenly drawn away, over Chanyeol’s shoulder.

“If it isn’t the ankle-biter,” he says.

“Get bent!” Sehun spits.

Chanyeol glances over at him. He’s wearing a black and white striped t-shirt with a denim jacket overtop, and a pair of sunglasses on his head.

“Already am!” Baekhyun calls back with a grin.

Sehun punches Baekhyun’s arm as he passes by, smirking.

Before he can make it to the front entrance, though, there’s a loud squawk on the other side, followed closely by the slap of skin on concrete.

Sehun pauses, glances over at the two of them, then slowly opens the door.

Jongin is peeling himself off the front steps and dusting off his vest. When he notices he’s being watched, he freezes.

“Sorry, I… I tripped.”

He looks up at Sehun apologetically, as if this accident has somehow affected him.

Sehun gives Jongin a pointed glance before he slides his sunglasses down over his eyes and brushes past, leaving him to sulk.

Chanyeol looks over at the clock above the front desk and sees it’s past one already. His stomach is aching for food and he suddenly remembers that there’s a little café tucked into the side of the hotel.

“If you’ll excuse me,” he murmurs, standing from his chair.

Baekhyun watches him go, content to let it be an informal parting.

Chanyeol stops outside the café, looking through the windows—it’s just as small as it appears to be from the outside. A single row of booths—four or five—lines one wall, while the serving counter and a handful of cushioned stools takes up the other. Down the back is the entrance to the kitchen with a curtain slung across it.

When he enters, a bell tinkles to signal his arrival and a man scurries out from the back. He’s wearing a dark blue apron and white polo with a smart bowtie. No hat, so Chanyeol thinks he’s both the baker as well as the server.

“Ah, hello. Good afternoon.”

The man bows and Chanyeol returns it.

“Take a seat anywhere.”

The man hurries behind the counter and hands Chanyeol a menu.

“The specials today are the tuna salad and key lime pie.”

His smile is a little unsettling and Chanyeol gets the feeling he doesn’t receive too many customers.

All his attention is focussed on Chanyeol and he’s having a hard time ignoring it, deciding to just order a cheeseburger and onion rings. The man nods and scuttles off to the kitchen.

There’s a beat-up old radio on the shelf behind the counter blaring pop music that suits the cheery mid-day sun.

_“I told the witch doctor you didn’t love me true,_

_I told the witch doctor you didn’t love me nice,_

_And then, the witch doctor, he gave me this advice…”_

Chanyeol examines the framed pictures that are hung up around the joint.

Many of them are scenic shots of deserts and beaches and lakes—very obviously California.

_“Oo ee, oo ah ah,_

_Ting tang, walla walla bing bang.”_

Others are different; mountains and forests and ancient stone kingdoms—Korea.

The man emerges several minutes later with Chanyeol’s plate of food, setting it before him and leaning onto the counter in an attempt at a casual position.

He’s far too close but Chanyeol begins to eat anyway.

The food is… incredible, and Chanyeol means to say as much, but instead ends up asking, “Why do you serve American food?”

The man is clearly Korean, and his shop is located in a Korean majority neighbourhood; Chanyeol can’t quite piece it together. Surely he’d have more business if he served Korean dishes.

His smile falters for a moment.

“I… just wanted my neighbours—friends—to be able to eat a burger somewhere… safer.”

Chanyeol glances down at the counter and nods, feeling foolish for asking; it’s a better reason than any.

“Well you can rest assured, the food is phenomenal,” he says. “I’m Park Chanyeol, by the way.”

The man’s smile returns, even more blinding than before.

“Kim Junmyeon.”

He offers a hand to shake, grip tight and unfaltering.

Chanyeol nods.

“It’s an honor.”

 

Kyungsoo’s office is brighter than it had been this morning, sun shining down through the windows upon Chanyeol’s legs where he’s seated on the examining table.

His sleeve is rolled up to mid-bicep and his heart is faintly thudding.

Kyungsoo saturates a cotton pad in isopropyl alcohol and rubs it across the shallow of Chanyeol’s elbow.

Next, he gives the ampoule a light tap before breaking off the top, the glass end snapping like a bone.

Chanyeol frowns while he watches Kyungsoo’s deft hands. Inserting the needle, drawing back the plunger, filling the thick glass syringe; he makes it look almost like an art, but that doesn’t stop the feeling of nausea.

Kyungsoo doesn’t say anything before he slides the needle in, leaving Chanyeol to bite back a hiss and divert his gaze.

The pinch is painful and Kyungsoo is none too gentle but it’s over soon enough.

“You can leave,” is all Kyungsoo says before he begins cleaning his instruments.

Chanyeol doesn’t hesitate.

 

Chanyeol taps his cigarette over the ash tray.

He flips his notebook over to a fresh page and picks up his pen, scribbling the date in the corner before he starts taking notes.

Kyungsoo’s relationship with Baekhyun seems decidedly unreciprocated.

Perhaps jealousy? Or resentment at being convinced to work in the hotel?

Or perhaps Kyungsoo is in charge of this string of murders and has little regard for his underlings.

Baekhyun seems to be rather amiable with everyone, speaking casually as if they all were his family. It’s highly possible that he’s acting, but his stories and expressions… they seem just a little too real. Perhaps he’s simply ignorant, or happy to turn a blind eye.

Minseok is beginning to seem a less likely suspect. He’s enigmatic, for certain, but otherwise appears relatively level-headed and harmless.

He does, however, have a personal room in which he could lure victims.

Yixing acts rather dependant on Kyungsoo and doesn’t seem to interact much with anyone else.

He’s an easy target to corner, not to mention an invaluable one.

Sehun seems not to have an especially close relationship with  _anyone_  in the hotel, although he’s at the very least friendly with Jongin and Baekhyun. With so much time spent in the kitchen, it would be difficult to orchestrate murder—unless there is an orally administered poison which has an exceptionally delayed reaction  _and_  Sehun has a master key to later collect the bodies.

Chanyeol draws a line through his name, making him the second to be exonerated alongside Jongin.

Now… how?

…How is it done?

What is the murder weapon?

A lethal dose of anesthetic?

Perhaps poison? No… the autopsies had picked up nothing abnormal in the blood stream—no poisons, chemicals, or even antibiotics.

So what, then?

And what about the bodies that have yet to be found?

Knife wounds?

Blunt force trauma?

Blood loss?

Might there be an element of torture involved?

Or psychological manipulation?

Why leave any bodies in the first place?

Perhaps there is more than one murderer?

Chanyeol sighs.

Until he narrows down the possibilities or finds some hard evidence, the possibilities are endless.

His mind is swimming, and when he sits back and looks at the paper, it’s a mess with connections and notes and theories. At least it’s something.

He folds it up and tucks it into the case folder.

He stands and immediately breaks into a sweat along his neck and down his spine. He feels vaguely ill from hunger too, but can’t imagine why—he’d eaten hardly two hours ago.

As he descends the staircase, the floor begins to look farther away than it is, and his hands larger. He stumbles into the lobby and his ears are buzzing, magnifying the sound of his breath.

He can see Baekhyun approaching him from across the room, but doesn’t make any move to meet him halfway.

“You’re just in time for dinner,” Baekhyun grins, “Care to… join…er—Chanyeol?”

His expression drops almost instantly into a frown, rising only his toes to get a look at his eyes.

“I-I’m afraid I can’t.”

The cold sweat is beginning to spread across his chest and panic blossoms beneath his skin.

No. This isn’t right. He needs—needs to get out of here right now.

Somewhere safe. His car.

Baekhyun suddenly grabs hold of Chanyeol’s arm, and  he tries weakly to pull away.

“I…I’ve made reservations at a little spot out near…D-Del Rey.”

He’s panting.

Baekhyun’s hold on his arm tightens.

“Chanyeol stop. Stop!”

He continues trying to pull away, heart beating erratically.

“You don’t look well at all; you need to sit.”

Baekhyun begins to walk him over to a chair.

His legs are shaking and his pulse thumping so hard he feels as if he’ll choke on it.

“No,” his speech begins to slur, “No, I’m…I’m—”

Chanyeol tumbles to the floor before he manages anything else, vision fading to black shortly after.


	4. Chapter 4

Day 4 — October 11th, 1958

 

The hotel looks different than usual.

The lights have all been extinguished and it seems as though nobody has touched the place in years, although that can’t be possible—he was here just yesterday.

Instead of the wide, expansive lobby, Chanyeol finds himself in a maze, rock and mortar piled high to form the walls—there’s no way he could climb them.

So he begins walking.

Right, left, left, right.

Nothing.

He begins to think this isn’t the hotel at all, but the same black and white checkered tiles line the floor and the ragged stone walls of the maze are overgrown with the same tropical plants that decorate the foyer.

Chanyeol continues turning corners—every corner he can until he hits a dead end.

Then he turns back and does the same the other way.

Nothing.

He walks for what feels like an hour, hand dragging across the coarse walls everywhere he goes, until he happens upon something different—a break in the monotony of stone.

“Welcome,” they say in time.

Before Chanyeol stands Baekhyun and Kyungsoo, clad solemnly in black, each in front of an intricately carved wooden door.

Baekhyun’s door is adorned with mahogany snakes, the eyes and scales of which shimmer with gold.

Kyungsoo’s door shows an image of two women, each resting one hand atop a skull, which looks to be inlaid with ivory.

“We’ve waited so long, we were beginning to think you wouldn’t come.”

Baekhyun grins. It’s a joyful expression, but for some reason it makes Chanyeol’s stomach churn.

“Why… are you here? What is this?”

He feels nauseous.

“We’ve always been here,” Baekhyun hums, “guarding the answers.”

“The answers?” Chanyeol asks. “To the case, you mean?”

“To everything.”

Baekhyun’s voice begins to echo.

Chanyeol’s heart beats faster—he’s finally found the answers he’s been looking for; the case is nearly solved.

“Which door hides the answers?” he asks.

“Well…” Baekhyun coos, “one door leads to safety…”

“…and the other to death,” Kyungsoo continues, face stoic.

“And while one of us tells the truth…” Baekhyun quirks his head, “…one of us always lies.”

The nausea takes over again and Chanyeol takes a step back, intending to escape the way he came, only to find a sloppily made brick wall blocking his path.

Kyungsoo says, “You may ask one of us a single question to help decide your fate.”

Chanyeol frowns. 

_They’ll allow him to ask a question?_

He takes a shaky step forward, giving himself a moment to think.

If Baekhyun is the liar, there may be no such answers to begin with, and both doors may lead to his death.

He looks over his shoulder at the wall; no turning back now.

If Kyungsoo is the liar, both doors may be safe to enter and he may in fact have more than one question to ask.

But for all Chanyeol knows, they may both be bluffing.

He decides on Kyungsoo, taking a few brave steps until he’s within touching distance.

“Does your door lead to the answers?”

“No,” Kyungsoo says without hesitation.

“And what is my name?”

“You are allowed a single question. Please choose a door.”

Chanyeol takes a sharp breath.

So Kyungsoo must be telling the truth… right? That means his door does not lead to the answers Chanyeol is looking for.

He swings his gaze to Baekhyun and their eyes meet; he’s standing properly with a polite smile on his face.

Chanyeol takes one step. Then another.

He raises one shaky hand and brushes it against Baekhyun’s cheek; he’s real.

Baekhyun closes his eyes and leans into the touch, resting his hand atop Chanyeol’s. His expression is one of absolutely serenity.

Chanyeol swallows thickly, stomach stirring at the closeness.

“I—” He clears his throat. “I don’t think—”

Baekhyun kisses him, only for a second, and Chanyeol tastes poison.

Poison and desire… One in the same, he supposes.

They separate and Chanyeol’s breathing grows shallow.

He presses a hand to his chest, frowning.

“Wha-what did you…”

In a panic, Chanyeol grabs the door handle and throws it open.

He stumbles through, turning to find Baekhyun watching him with venom in his gaze.

He’s picked the correct door.

Chanyeol takes another few steps back and hits a wall hard enough to knock the remaining breath from his lungs.

He looks up, terror rising when he notices that he’s no farther along in the maze—he’s in a box.

Smoke begins to pour in from cracks in the walls and Chanyeol shouts, lunging toward the door only to have it close in his face.

Flames begin to lick at his ankles and he stamps furiously, trying to snuff out the fires before they climb higher.

It’s useless.

He can’t regain his breath.

He pounds his fists against the door while the smoke pours into his lungs.

“This isn’t right!” he gasps. “It-it’s not fair! I chose the right door!”

 _Oh, my dear… Life isn’t fair._  

 

Chanyeol wakes in a cold sweat, clutching at his sheets.

He picks up the clock on his bedside table and gawks when it reads 11:18AM.

There goes most of the day.

There’s a vague uneasiness at the back of his throat that has followed him out of the dream. Whether it’s lingering from the imagined smoke or the kiss, he isn’t sure.

With another sigh, he sits upright and the room begins to spin, nearly pitching him onto the floor. He slams his hand down on the bedside table to stable himself. He focusses on the chair in the corner and watches it rock back and forth like a boat. 

 _What is happening?_  

He’s still in yesterday’s clothes and his stomach is aching.

When his vision is suitably steady, he tries standing up. He manages to waddle over to the bathroom and splash some cold water on his face.

He glances up at himself in the mirror and is shocked by how pale he is.

Memories of last night begin to creep into his mind; he’d collapsed.

He remembers Baekhyun holding his arm to stop him from leaving… then climbing into bed—nothing in between.

He takes a quick shower, washing the sweat and gel out of his scalp, before re-dressing in a clean shirt with a cardigan overtop; he’s too warm for a jacket.

Last night he’d been planning to examine the fourth floor. He considers for a moment before grabbing a wire clothes hanger from the closet by the door and bending it out of shape, straightening out the curve and angling it to act like a skeleton key. He tucks it into the breast of his jacket, along with his wallet and badge and heads up to the highest landing.

As he climbs, the revolver strapped to his waist seems to grow heavier.

Breaking in isn’t difficult—not with a fifty-year-old lock.

The door creaks open and Chanyeol slips inside, into the windowless hallway.

He shuts the door behind him and immediately begins walking the familiar loop of the floor, not wanting to be up here for longer than necessary.

He checks the room doors as he goes, but they’re all locked as well and would require a much more extensive effort to open.

There’s a peculiar smell on this floor that isn’t present anywhere else in the hotel—like charcoal.

When he makes it around to the back, something crunches under his foot and he looks down—a discarded piece of kindling.

When he looks up again, he gasps.

Half of the wall is black—all either burned and charred by fire or else blistered by the heat.

The doors of two rooms are dangling open, too skeletal to be of any use as a barrier.

Chanyeol pushes on the first, careful not to step on anything that could send him tumbling through the floor.

It’s a large suite with a kitchenette and Chanyeol can see right away that the oven is black from the flames it once spewed. The countertop is nonexistent, a handful of ashes smeared across the floor.

There’s obviously been cleanup, albeit a hasty one, and sheets draped and covering most of the room.

Light is filtering through the sheet they’ve pinned along the far wall and it’s billowing slightly. Evidently the window, looking down upon the alleyway, has been broken.

This floor could very well be somewhere they isolate their victims.

_“We’ll need to transfer you to another room; I apologize for the inconvenience. Let me help you move your belongings up to the fourth floor.”_

Chanyeol tries the second room now. It seems to have just been collateral damage—the one next door is where the real blaze had been. The windows are uncovered, letting the midday sun in.

When he steps back out, he frowns.

The wall space between the two rooms is quite wide, and there doesn’t seem to be a closet or toilet taking up the space. Chanyeol starts breaking off the more heavily charred boards, wallpaper flaking away beneath his fingers, until there’s a decently sized gap to peek through.

It’s pitch black, so at first he sees nothing, but as his eyes adjust he can make out a metal grate and thick cables behind it. 

_An elevator_

It occurs to him within seconds that this could be how they’re transporting bodies.

Chanyeol immediately checks behind the doors of both rooms, feeling the wall, or what’s left of it, for the seams of a hidden entry but finds none.

Then… what? If they have an elevator, why build over it?

Back in the hallway, Chanyeol begins to feel dizzy again, warmth flooding up his cheeks and across his forehead.

He ignores it at first but before long he has to remove his cardigan, sweat beading on his neck.

He catches sight of something to the right and whips around, expecting flames to be licking up the wall, but instead finding it to be the sun reflecting off a passing car below.

His hand is shaking when he rests it against the wall, supporting his weight while he composes himself. 

 _Food_ , he decides; he needs something to eat. Perhaps he’ll return to the floor later tonight.

Chanyeol is careful to re-lock and test the handle before huffing out a quick breath and hurrying down the stairs.

The lobby is far busier than usual.

Of course, he realizes: it’s a Saturday. With the children out of school, families are planning their daily outings.

It’s another warm day which isn’t helping Chanyeol’s infernal inner temperature in the slightest.

He walks into the dining room and practically slams the kitchen door open, startling Sehun from where he’s straining an enormous pot of cellophane noodles.

“Sorry, I… Water.”

Jongin quickly slips in behind him and helps escort him to an armchair in the far corner of the restaurant.

“It’s cooler away from the kitchen,” Jongin explains. “I’ll be right back with a glass of water.”

Chanyeol takes a deep breath, smoothing a hand over his hair—still wet.

When Jongin returns, Chanyeol immediately notices his hair is no longer flopping down in front of his eyes—it’s been slicked back.

“You took my advice,” he says.

Jongin frowns and quirks his head.

“What do y—oh!”

He touches his hair, a genuine smile flashing across his face.

 

“Any time.”

Chanyeol accepts the glass Jongin has been holding for him and takes a sip.

Jongin, looking proud, heads toward a table of four older women to note down their orders.

The expression puts a pang in Chanyeol’s stomach—he wants to save Jongin from this hotel. He doesn’t deserve to be trapped in this place, whether he knows what’s happening or not.

Perhaps he’s afraid of legal ramifications for not reporting activity to the police?

Perhaps he needs the money.

But it breaks Chanyeol’s heart; he’s just a child.

He sips his water steadily and when he’s finished, wanders out into the lobby—he’ll grab food from Junmyeon’s.

He intends to head straight out the door, but halfway there the world begins to contort and his knees give out.

Before he can hit the floor, someone catches him, arms wrapped around his chest.

He blinks rapidly to settle his vision and sees Minseok above him, his expression taken-aback but not concerned.

With surprising strength, he hefts Chanyeol upright.

“Feet aren’t cooperating today?” he murmurs.

“Thank you,” Chanyeol says, still trying to regain his balance.

Baekhyun rushes over and puts his hands on either side of Chanyeol’s face, then on his forehead.

“Are you alright? I haven’t seen you all morning.”

“I’m fine,” Chanyeol recoils slightly. “Just slept a little late.”

Baekhyun pulls him closer again.

“Kyungsoo told me if you’re still warm, to send you down for another Aspirin.”

Chanyeol pauses. 

 _Another?_  

“What do you mean  _another_  Aspirin? He hasn’t given me any.”

Baekhyun steps back now, eyebrows shooting up.

“Do you… not remember what happened last night?” 

 _What?_  

Minseok is standing off to the side with crossed arms, a hint of a smirk suggesting he’s enjoying the show.

“I… I fainted. And you helped me to bed.”

Baekhyun shakes his head.

“Kyungsoo took your temperature—you had a horrible fever.” 

 _No_.

“He gave you an Aspirin last night and kept a cold compress on your neck for a half hour before Sehun and Jongin helped you up to your room.” 

 _No, no, no_.

“It’s probably best to go take another.”

Baekhyun smiles sweetly and it’s the first time the expression has made Chanyeol feel so nauseous.

He can’t get sick; not  _now._  Predators prey on the weak and he’s surrounded by predators. Hell, he’s crawled inside their den and began to taunt them.

They take the stairs one at a time, Chanyeol’s arm around Baekhyun’s shoulder.

He helps Chanyeol into a seat in the waiting room and raps on the office door.

“Soo!” he calls, “Chanyeol’s here!”

He waits until Kyungsoo mutters a response before turning around with a satisfied nod.

“Would you like me to wait until you’re finished and help you back upstairs?”

Chanyeol shakes his head.

“No, thank you. I’ll be fine,” he replies, sending Baekhyun on his way.

After a few minutes of tense silence, Kyungsoo exits the office holding two Aspirin tablets in one hand and a cup filled with water in the other.

He hands both to Chanyeol who gratefully chugs them down in the hopes that the pressure in his head will subside.

“The fever is a symptom of your pleurisy; it isn’t contagious.”

Chanyeol nods, glad at least that he won’t spread this to any other guests.

“You can come see me for more Aspirin in three hours.”

It’s an indirect dismissal. Chanyeol doesn’t dispute it.

He heads straight over to Junmyeon’s and orders a coffee and a sandwich.

Junmyeon seems ecstatic that Chanyeol has returned for the second day in a row—he doesn’t have the heart to tell him he’s returning to San Francisco soon.

He takes his food outside, choosing to sit at one of the dainty outdoor tables and watch the hotel’s entrance.

The streets are especially busy today—Saturday.

 

He takes a sip of his coffee and grimaces.

Some of the men in his branch back in San Francisco drink it black, like cops do in the films, just to prove a point.

It tastes horrendous. He scoops a heaping spoonful of Pream from the tin on the table into his drink, turning it from a foreboding black to light brown.

He hears the Legacy’s entry bell tinkle and glances up.

Yixing strolls out, pausing at the bottom of the stairs while he tries to fix his hair into an American-style quiff.

Just the person Chanyeol’s been meaning to talk with.

“

Yixing!” Chanyeol calls.

He turns around, eyes wide and searching.

Chanyeol gestures him over and waves for him to take a seat.

“O-oh,” he mumbles, shoulders relaxing slightly when he realizes who had called him.

He looks behind himself, as if he expects someone to reprimand him for stopping to talk. He gingerly sits on the edge of the seat, glancing down at Chanyeol’s coffee.

“Good morning,” Chanyeol murmurs.

Yixing nods.

“You too.”

Chanyeol takes a slow sip. The heat really isn’t aiding his fever.

He places his cup on its saucer and looks up.

“…Can I ask you something?”

No harm in being blunt.

“Er… Yes?” Yixing replies, shifting in his chair.

“Why are you here? At the hotel?”

The corner of Yixing’s mouth quirks up momentarily.

“To… study medicine. Is that not the correct answer?”

Chanyeol folds his hands in his lap.

“Why would the staff not pair you with an anesthesiologist at the hospital? Surely you would gain more relevant experience.”

Yixing’s shoulders fall at that—they both know the answer. It has nothing to do with his intelligence and everything to do with his race.

“I suppose… they think Kyungsoo is gifted enough…”

His sentence dissipates.

“What sorts of things do you work on?”

The blood seems to drain from Yixing’s face, growing paler by the second.

Chanyeol has never been very good at the bad-cop act—he’d always leave that for Jongdae, who has far more spunk. Instead, he usually asks quick, semi-related questions to catch the suspect off guard; it works just as well if not better most of the time.

“I-I’m…” he stutters, “…not supposed to share that information.”

“We both know that’s not true,” Chanyeol hums.

He leans forward and lowers his voice.

“You can tell me the truth; there’s no penalty for that.”

Yixing’s eyebrow cocks—just hardly—suggesting he would beg to differ.

“I… have… never actually assisted with administering anesthetic,” he mumbles.

Ashamed, he lets his head hang.

“Everything here is paperwork, I haven’t gained any experience. Do you think they’ll let me graduate?”

He glances up at Chanyeol with desperation in his eyes, looking as if he’s just bared his soul.

The confession stuns Chanyeol, considering it wasn’t the one he was anticipating.

“Er… I—I’m sure it’ll be fine, Yixing.”

“Really?”

He looks more like a kicked dog than a murder conspirator.

Chanyeol nods, scratching his neck.

“Yes, I’m sure. I’m sorry to have interrupted your day.”

Yixing flashes him a grateful smile before departing, and Chanyeol can’t help but feel like, in his young mind, they’ve just developed a much closer bond.

Well… There’s one dead-end out of the way.

The edge of nausea is finally beginning to subside as the Aspirin kicks in.

When he’s finished his food, he drops the plate inside and turns to leave.

“Chanyeol!”

Junmyeon comes scrambling out from the kitchen like a pup whose owner has just returned. He wipes his hands on his apron and grins.

“Will I see you later?”

Chanyeol can’t help mirroring his expression.

“Tomorrow, I’m sure. I can’t stay away from your food.”

Junmyeon dips his head bashfully.

“Thank you.”

He may be slightly overexcited, but it’s refreshing to be around someone who’s not suspect in a triple homicide.

Chanyeol walks outside and takes a deep breath, finally feeling stable on his feet.

He pulls out a cigarette and enjoys the wholesome serenity of the neighbourhood for a few minutes—no death or abduction plaguing his mind—just the rumble of automobiles and the heat of the sun.

 

_“I call him lollipop, lollipop,_

_Oh lolli lolli lolli, lollipop, lollipop,_

_Oh lolli lolli lolli, lollipop, lollipop,_

_Oh lolli lolli lolli, lollipop!”_

Chanyeol sits in his Chevy with the FM blaring for nearly an hour, watching every entrant into the graveyard—every mourning relative, friend, spouse…

It was a long shot, but he had hoped the woman would appear again with a new bouquet so that he could speak with her.

When he had gone to check the grave earlier, Chanyeol had found it swept clean of the old, wilting flowers, leaving it just as barren and grey as the next.

He taps his fingers against the steering wheel, considering his next move.

He’d promised he would call Jongdae again today and checks his wallet for coins, finding more than enough.

The telephone booth is at the far end of the block, behind the cemetery. 

 _“Please deposit ten cents for a long distance call.”_  

He drops in the coin. The line rings for a few long moments. 

 _“I’m sorry, the number you have dialed is not available at this time. Please hang up or try your call again.”_  

Chanyeol sighs.

He hangs up the telephone and flips down the coin release slot, collecting his dimes.

Perhaps he’s out on a case.

When Chanyeol steps out of the booth, his lungs are aching for a cigarette. He slides the last cigarette out of the pack in his pocket and lights it, leaning over the chain link fence that lines the perimeter of the cemetery.

The shade of a nearby palm tree is shifting slowly across the grass. His ashes crumble and flutter to the ground.

Something, or rather someone, catches his eye and he looks toward the man striding across the alley over the far side of the graveyard.

…Minseok?

He crosses the street, hands in his pockets, and heads west.

Without a second thought, Chanyeol follows him, dropping his cigarette butt and crushing it under his shoe.

They both turn their respective corners and stride nearer, although Minseok hasn’t seemed to notice him yet.

Chanyeol falls into step beside him, slowing significantly to match Minseok’s casual strides.

“Afternoon,” he greets.

Minseok hardly gives him a glance, eyes only briefly flickering his way behind his sunglasses. He’s dressed in a short-sleeved black shirt and black slacks, appearing rather vampiric in the bright October sun.

“Good afternoon.”

“Mind if I walk with you?”

Minseok shrugs and since it isn’t an outright ‘no’, Chanyeol jumps on the opportunity.

He doesn’t ask where Minseok is heading, instead opting for a less confrontational topic.

“How has your day been?”

Minseok purses his lips.

“I think I should be the one asking you that. You’re not afraid of fainting in the middle of the street?”

Chanyeol flushes receiving condescension from someone nearly five inches shorter than he is.

“It’s a risk worth taking.”

“To stare at a cemetery all day?” he murmurs.

Evidently he  _had_  noticed Chanyeol earlier.

Chanyeol changes the subject entirely.

“If you don’t mind me asking, why are you staying at the Legacy?”

Minseok quirks an eyebrow.

“Surely you’re aware of the guests who have passed away,” Chanyeol continues.

His mouth opens in a silent ‘ah’.

“Yes, of course,” he replies.

Chanyeol waits for him to expand but he never does.

“That… doesn’t turn you away?”

Minseok shrugs one shoulder.

“Should it? I’m not afraid to die.”

He keeps his eyes on the path he’s walking rather than on Chanyeol.

It wasn’t the answer he’d been expecting, and certainly not something he thought he’d be able to connect with Minseok over.

Minseok continues.

“My family is probably dead. Everyone at the Legacy is my family now. If they decide to kill me, I must not be as important to them as I thought. I’ll just join my mother and father in Heaven.” He shrugs. “…or Hell.”

Minseok begins whistling as casually as if he were chatting about his lunch.

Chanyeol is beginning to feel the presence of the sun, sweat clinging to his shirt as he walks.

They cross another block in silence before reaching a set of small, moss-covered steps leading down into an alley that looks as if it’s never seen the light of the sun.

“This is where I leave you,” Minseok says, giving a brief bow and trotting down the steps.

Chanyeol doesn’t bother shouting ‘goodbye’ after him.

Even in the shade he’s craving water, hot enough that his own hands are starting to appear small and far away—he should return to the hotel.

As he turns to return to his car, someone lunges at him and he stumbles back into the wall.

The jolt knocks the breath from his lungs and sends him into a coughing fit. He doubles over and both hands brace against the brick, body still tensed protectively against his attacker.

Every cough claws at his throat and he can hardly see through the tears.

When he’s finally able to drag in a gasping breath and push himself upright, there’s nobody in sight; not across the street, not even in the little alley.

Chanyeol frowns and heads for his Chevy, glancing behind himself every few steps until he’s safely behind the wheel.

When he returns to the hotel, it’s bizarrely empty, his heels clicking against the tiled floor.

It takes him a few moments to realize it’s because Baekhyun isn’t in his usual spot behind the desk.

When Chanyeol glances at the clock, he nearly gasps seeing that it’s half past four. No wonder his body has been playing tricks on him—he’s long overdue another Aspirin.

He swings the door to the stairs open and starts to descend when Kyungsoo's voice, distant and quiet, stop him dead.

He skitters back up the steps, careful not to cause any groaning, and presses himself against the door to obscure his presence.

Baekhyun and Kyungsoo are speaking in rapid-fire Korean farther along the hall.

“You’re too reckless. It’s putting you, me, and this hotel in danger.”

Are they talking about the murders?

“I would appreciate if you had a little more faith in me.”

“Our lives could end, Baekhyun. I don’t think you understand the severity of the situation.”

“I understand everything, Kyungsoo; intimately. My dedication—my heart and soul—are in this hotel and I don’t like being spoken down to on issues which I am the most knowledgeable about.”

“You’re growing arrogant. Re-evaluate your priorities before you end up dead—or worse.”

“Excuse me for maintaining a pleasant demeanour in a so-called ‘dangerous time’.”

Kyungsoo sighs.

“…I didn’t ask to be dragged into this situation.”

“But if I remember correctly, you weren’t exactly apathetic either.”

Baekhyun’s voice drops.

“Admit it, Kyungsoo. You’re happy at this hotel, no matter what the risks are.”

There are a few seconds of silence before footsteps begin echoing up the hall and Chanyeol snaps out of his focus.

He turns carefully before opening and shutting the door from the lobby as loudly and blatantly as possible.

The voices silence immediately.

He hops down the stairs, turns the corner, and is met by Baekhyun’s look of surprise, paired with Kyungsoo’s look of annoyance.

“Oh…” Chanyeol says. “Sorry, have I interrupted something? I’ve just come for another Aspirin.”

“No, we were just chatting. By all means.” Baekhyun gestures past himself. “To the medicine.”

Kyungsoo is already disappearing into his office, mouth drawn into a grimace.

Chanyeol follows him through, planting himself in the open doorway of the office.

Kyungsoo opens one of the overhead cupboards and grabs an exceptionally large bottle of Aspirin, shaking two pills out and handing them directly to Chanyeol. He fills a cup up under the tap before handing that off too.

Duty fulfilled, Kyungsoo disappears back into the examination room, forcing Chanyeol to scuttle back as he slams the door.

No ‘How are you feeling?’ or ‘Let me take your temperature’; not that Chanyeol expected one.

He wanders back down the hallway towards the stairs but stills when something catches his eye.

A large painting, hanging by a single wire, adorns the wall. He’d noticed it in passing, but never stopped to admire it.

Depicted within it is an enormous tree, ten times the size of any Chanyeol has ever seen. The branches are thin and numerous, splayed like the web of a spider along the underside of the tree. The branches and trunk are draped with mosses and lichens as is the upper foliage. Above the tree hangs a great red sun that paints the sky above orange. A small village sits below the lowest branches of the tree, understated in the background of the painting.

The entire piece looks as if it were copied directly from a dream.

“Gorgeous, isn't it?” Baekhyun murmurs and Chanyeol’s breath catches in his throat, surprised by his lingering presence—he’d assumed Baekhyun had already returned to the lobby.

He turns to see Baekhyun leaning against the wall admiring the art.

“We found it at an auction a year or two back. The artist was travelling—not an American. Kyungsoo and I instantly took a liking to it. Many of his other paintings were dark and dull, grotesque even, and this one shone like a beacon between them all.”

Chanyeol turns back around, seeing it from a new perspective.

In fact, now that he mentions it, that village looks…

They stand in silence for several moments before Baekhyun sighs.

“Anyways, I'd better get back to work. No rest for the wicked and all that.”

He turns the corner and Chanyeol hears the stairs creak as he climbs them, then the door open and shut.

Moving nearer to the painting, Chanyeol confirms his suspicions.

The village at the bottom of the painting isn't settling with the evening sun as he'd first assumed.

No—the village is on fire.

The windows of every building are spewing dark, monochromatic flames and the smoke is billowing up, behind the tree, to pollute the sky.

The overhanging red orb in the sky, he realizes, is not the sun, but a moon shining red through the grunge.

The details on the tree, he notices last of all, aren't mosses and lichens at all but frail, lifeless human bodies hanging from every branch and bow.

 

Chanyeol drops a dollar bill onto the counter and thanks the woman for her assistance, tucking the new pack of Camels into his pocket.

He looks both ways before running back across the street and into the hotel.

_“This is a song that’s headed toward the top ten, it’s a swinger.”_

Chanyeol glances over at the television where two young girls are squealing with each other, eyes glued to tonight’s episode of the Dick Clark Show.

_“Shimmy, Shimmy, Ko-Ko-Bop!_ _Little Anthony and The Imperials!”_

Dick gestures to the stage as music starts blaring from the speakers.

Chanyeol sweeps his gaze across the rest of the room; Kyungsoo is behind the front desk, scribbling in a large textbook.

At first he doesn’t notice Baekhyun sitting alone in the far corner of the room, taking up one of the two wide leather armchairs that have been placed next to the pine tree. In his hands is that same Agatha Christie novel.

Behind his seat is a door that Chanyeol has never taken much notice of, pressed right into the corner with a sign that reads ‘Staff Only’.

He looks toward the dining room for only a moment before deciding against it—his stomach is protesting the idea of food.

_“Shimmy shimmy ko-ko-bop,_

_Shimmy shimmy bop,_

_You can do the ko-ko-bop,_

_Now’s no time to stop.”_

He takes a seat next to Baekhyun, who glances up at him first with surprise, then with delight. He smiles and sets his book aside.

“To what do I owe this pleasure?” he asks.

Chanyeol shrugs one shoulder.

“I was wondering if I could ask you a bit about the building. For my book.”

Baekhyun’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Oh. Were you planning on setting it here?”

“Not originally,” he lies, “but I thought I might as well.”

Chanyeol looks pointedly up at the chandelier and across to the oil lamps and multitude of tropical plants.

“Everything about the hotel is so… mystical, untouchable. It’s like checking-in to a painting.”

Baekhyun has his head tilted to the side, an appreciative smile set on his face.

“…You think so? That’s such a beautiful way of looking at it.”

He taps the book sitting next to him.

“I think you’re just about fit to give her a run for her money.”

Truthfully, Chanyeol knows nothing of Agatha Christie nor creative writing, but he intends to fake his way through his stay until he finds some solid answers, so he laughs.

“Alright,” Baekhyun crosses his legs. “I’ll tell you whatever you’d like in exchange for a signed copy of the book after it’s been published.”

Chanyeol laughs again.

“It’s a deal. So…” He leans back. “Let’s hear it.”

Baekhyun purses his lips, considering where to start.

“Well, as you already know, it was built in 1907 by Korean immigrants. It’s a four storey building with nine guest rooms on each of the upper floors. The basement has…”

He pauses briefly to think.

“…six rooms. A doctor’s office, small laboratory, waiting room, laundry room, storage room, and archive. The ground floor operates a full kitchen and dining room as well as the owners’ quarters.”

He gestures behind himself.

“Anything else you need to know?” Baekhyun asks.

Chanyeol begins tapping his foot.

“I didn’t realize there was a fourth floor.”

The easy smile slides off Baekhyun’s face.

“It’s off limits.”

Chanyeol cocks an eyebrow.

“Why?”

Baekhyun looks regretful, hands wringing.

“There… was a fire. It was just before I took over as the owner. Long story short, I’m not to permit anyone entrance until renovations are complete and that requires rather a lot of money.”

Chanyeol hums quietly, glancing down at the floor before a smirk spreads across his face.

“…Surely there can’t be tremendous damage; nothing’s noticeable from the outside.”

Baekhyun clearly catches his playful tone and narrows his eyes.

“No,” he grins, “You may not. Those orders come from more qualified men than me and I wouldn't dare disobey them just to see you hurt.”

Chanyeol hadn’t expected that plan to work.

“If it makes you feel better, though, the floor hasn't been touched in… oh, I'd say nearly three years now. Long before any of the…”

Baekhyun unclasps his hands to gesture vaguely.

“…disturbances. I do have the records, if you'd like to see them.”

He curls his fingers around the chair’s leather arms, leaning forward in anticipation of Chanyeol's answer.

“Do you have the blueprints of the hotel?”

That’s what he’s really dying to see.

Baekhyun contemplates for a moment.

“…Yes, I’m sure I could find them somewhere.”

He pushes up from his chair and walks around the corner to the hidden staircase, Chanyeol hot on his heels.

Baekhyun leads him down through the supply room and out into the hall, to a door he hadn’t noticed the last time around.

He unlocks the door and flicks on the lights, just a few bare bulbs connected by wires that trail across the ceiling and down the wall.

The room is unremarkable—not too large, L-shaped, and filled with bookcases and stacks of paperwork that appear not to have been touched in twenty years.

The absence of windows leaves it feeling damp and gloomy, undoubtedly hiding mould in its unreachable crevices.

“Unfortunately, your guess as to where the schematics are is as good as mine. I don’t remember ever having seen them in my three years here.”

Baekhyun has his lips pursed and his arms crossed, looking as though he’s preparing to undertake a massive task, which this very well may be.

Chanyeol’s search begins in the far, dimly lit corner. He’s hesitant to lift papers lest they loosen an unholy amount of dust into the air—God knows it’s the last thing his infection-ridden lungs need.

The first ten minutes or so of searching are uneventful.

He and Baekhyun look together, occasionally chatting but mostly remaining silent.

Chanyeol jumps when a heavy  _thud_  reverberates through the room, quickly followed by an “Aha!” which lifts his spirits.

“Found it!”

Baekhyun pops out from behind a bookcase with a large envelope in his hands. He hands it to Chanyeol who carefully slides out a collection of blueprints.

The ground floor to fourth floor are detailed exquisitely in white pencil, but… there isn’t a page for the basement.

Ah well—he’s already seen into every room save for the laundry, it isn’t a huge loss.

Baekhyun retreats back behind the shelf, murmuring to himself as he searches for the official incident report on the fire.

Chanyeol studies the orientation and size of each guest room, running through ways in which the perpetrator could strike and still manage to have all three victims be found in their rooms.

“Have you ever thought about reinforcing the hotel?” Chanyeol asks. “You know… heavier locks, telephones in every room, perhaps a curfew?”

Baekhyun hesitates before answering.

“We were considering adding an additional deadbolt to every door but Kyungsoo reasoned that that may pose even more of a risk. Say someone reported they could hear the guest next door having a fit. If the door were dead bolted, we mightn’t be able to provide immediate medical attention. Do you see the reasoning?”

Chanyeol hums in affirmation, eyeing up the blueprints.

Baekhyun continues, “Of course, we figured if anyone was being murdered, the criminal would have to be entering the rooms, since that’s where the bodies have been found.”

A sudden realization dawns on Chanyeol and he checks the schematics for confirmation. The elevator shaft he’d seen on the fourth floor is on this map.

“Did this building used to have an elevator?”

“Pardon?” Baekhyun sticks his head around the corner of the bookcase. “Oh. Yes, yes. It still does.”

He approaches Chanyeol with his eyes trained on the map.

“It’s been broken since before I arrived and the previous owners sealed it off. It’s a shame…” He frowns. “…I would have just replaced it. Perhaps one day I will.”

Baekhyun’s eyes flick up to catch Chanyeol’s. He looks like he’s about to speak again but instead shuts his mouth.

The hazy light in the room reflects off Baekhyun’s carefully styled hair, casting a halo atop his head.

Chanyeol clears his throat and murmurs, “What do you know about An Seung-ho?”

Baekhyun’s eyebrows shoot up and he lets out a sharp laugh.

“The original owner, you mean?”

He takes a step back.

“I know he’s dead. I know nobody around here cared for him much.”

“Really?” Chanyeol asks, thinking of the woman who had delivered flowers to his grave.

Baekhyun sighs, crossing his arms.

“From what I hear, he wasn’t especially compassionate towards his daughter.”

“He beat her?”

Baekhyun shrugs.

“Nobody has told me as much and I don’t feel it’s my place to ask.”

A sensible answer.

Chanyeol begins drumming the fingers that are holding the paper.

“Did you ever meet him?”

“No… The hotel was only abandoned a few weeks after he died. In fact, I don’t think anyone in this hotel knew him. Everyone he associated with sort of… dispersed, after he passed. Why do you ask?”

Chanyeol tilts his head.

“I saw his grave the other day… and a woman…”

He pauses, thinking of the best way to phrase the situation.

“She laid flowers down for him, but she didn’t look sad.”

Baekhyun shrugs.

“Probably just an old friend.”

Yes… Probably.

He’s beginning to feel jittery again from the fever, stomach churning in this confined space.

His exhaustion hits him all at once and he yawns, tears welling in his eyes.

Baekhyun’s face has fallen slightly.

“…About time to pile up some Z's?” he murmurs as Chanyeol rubs the heel of his hand against his eye.

It can’t be much past eight, and he had slept so late he ought not to be tired, but the fever has completely and utterly drained him.

“…I suppose it is. Thank you for your help, Baekhyun.”

“Anytime. Sweet dreams,” Baekhyun replies with a grin, and Chanyeol can feel his eyes trained on his back as he leaves the archive and begins the trek up to his room.

He ignores Kyungsoo’s pointed look, the television’s white noise, and his nicotine headache.

Within minutes of lying down to rest, he’s asleep.

 

Chanyeol is surrounded.

Everyone in the hotel—Minseok, Sehun, Yixing, Jongin, Baekhyun, Kyungsoo—they’re all standing around him with their hands behind their backs and their mouths drawn into soulless grins.

Chanyeol can hear his blood rushing in his ears, panic cancelling out all the background noise of the lobby.

He’s in a panic, he needs to get out.

They all take one step closer and begin to draw out their hands for Chanyeol to see—long fingers with jagged nails, flecked with blood.

A burst of adrenaline sends Chanyeol flying, tearing through the barrier and heading up towards the stairs.

No, you want to be going towards the door.

It’s too late; he throws himself up the staircase _._

His eyes won’t focus, the warmth radiating from his skin is unbearable.

He keeps tripping, legs not bending how he’s wanting them to, so his hands assist. They push him up off every step and he continues to crawl forward.

Pure adrenaline is carrying him, his fight or flight response in full-effect.

He reaches the landing.

Around the corner.

More stairs.

The thin carpet is biting into his palms and he’s nearly gasping with effort. He feels as if he’s swimming through molasses, limbs all moving far slower than he needs them do.

He needs his files, he needs his suitcase.

He reaches the next landing and scrabbles at the doorknob to the floor.

When it swings open, Chanyeol braces himself against the wall and rises up on shaky legs. He can’t hear anyone chasing him; perhaps he’s lost them.

Using the wall as his stability, he makes for his room. His shoes feel as if they’re made of lead and his—

Chanyeol stops suddenly, a cough tearing from his throat. He doubles over and the movement brings him to his knees.

With one hand braced against the wall, he struggles for breath.

Spatters of blood hit the carpet and his vision falters. He looks up at his door and it seems so far away—ten or twelve steps still.

Heavy footsteps sound behind him and he tries to scream, “No! Leave me alone!” but all that comes out is a croak and a trail of blood down his chin.

Chanyeol pushes on, crawling on his hands and knees until he reaches his door.

The intense body heat is making his head throb and he has to try five or six times to fit the key into the lock properly.

Just as he manages to open the door, someone grabs his wrist, grip ice cold.

_“Chanyeol…”_

The man speaks slowly and carefully, kneeling down beside him and drawing his hand away from the door.

He recognizes that voice.

 _“Why are you running?”_ __  
  



	5. Chapter 5

Day 5 — October 12, 1958

Los Angeles, California

Chanyeol starts awake, coughing violently for a few moments until his lungs settle.

His head is aching as if he’s hit it on something and he hisses in pain.

The clock reads quarter past one in the morning and Chanyeol sighs, lying back down.

Only a few minutes pass before he climbs out of bed, tucking his revolver into the waistband of his pyjamas and leaving the room.

The hall is spinning around him so he holds a hand out, running it along the wall lest he lose his balance.

He sneaks down the stairs, squinting in the dark when he reaches the ground floor to make sure Kyungsoo or anybody else who may be in the lobby isn’t aware of his presence.

Briefly, Chanyeol wonders how Kyungsoo doesn’t go mad alone in the dark out there.

Thankfully, the basement door is unlocked, probably in case of a medical emergency, and Chanyeol takes extra precautions climbing down the stairs.

He’s wearing only socks on his feet and feels rather foolish, the stairs groaning in agreement.

When he reaches the bottom, the floor is cold and has Chanyeol’s hair standing upright.

The lights are still on down here and it feels unnervingly like he’s being watched.

He makes his way around the corner, past the painting, to the door of the archive room. It’s locked, of course, so Chanyeol kneels, peeking through the keyhole.

The lights are off—unoccupied.

It’s a more modern lock and far beyond his picking capabilities so—

He freezes upon hearing something down the hall.

It was too brief to decipher—perhaps a human, perhaps only a rat.

Chanyeol silently stands and tiptoes toward the source of the noise.

When he hears it once again, it’s definitively human, followed by the bang of a .

He notices the door to the hotel’s laundry room is ajar, lights on but no machines running.

The blood in Chanyeol’s veins grows icy and, combined with the fever, sends him into a cold sweat.

He shouldn’t be here, he really shouldn’t be here.

Another noise, more torturous than the first. It sounds almost as if someone is screaming, but the sound won’t leave their throat.

Chanyeol’s pulse leaps and his hand comes to hover over his revolver.

 

This could be what he desperately needs: the answer to this case.

He positions himself in the shadow of the door, so that nobody inside can see him, and glances inside.

At first he sees nothing, just hampers of sheets, some clothes, and two automatic washing machines.

He pushes the door open a little wider until the other side of the room comes into view. Several drying racks and an electric dryer with—

Chanyeol gasps before slapping a hand to his mouth.

He sees Sehun first, standing up in front of the electric dryer with his back to the door.

…Then he sees Jongin.

He’s sitting atop the dryer reclining onto his elbows with his legs wrapped around Sehun’s waist… They’re both naked from the hips down and… and…

The instinctive sound of shock that Chanyeol makes is, thankfully, muffled by his hand.

He realizes the clothes on the floor aren’t laundry, but rather the pair’s discarded pants.

This is wrong, he should tell Baekhyun, he should tell the authorities, he should leave…

When Jongin lets out a whimper, though, Chanyeol’s breath catches in his throat.

He leans a little farther into the room until he can see Sehun’s penis moving in and out of Jongin’s hole.

Sehun has a firm grip on Jongin’s thighs, keeping him still while he thrusts into him with restrained grunts.

The dryer rattles beneath him and quietly echoes around the room, as does the slap of skin on skin.

Jongin’s face is contorted in pleasure and Chanyeol can tell his breaths are coming shallow and quick.

He lifts his hand to his mouth to muffle the moans Sehun is dragging from him and Sehun murmurs something in Korean that Chanyeol doesn’t catch. Jongin nods emphatically.

Chanyeol’s eyes are glazed and he knows it isn’t from the fever.

The scene before him is so obviously vulgar, not to mention _illegal_ , but it also bears so much resemblance to making love to a woman that Chanyeol’s body can’t seem to tell the difference. Heat rushes between his legs and he squeezes them together.

Sehun pushes his damp hair out of his face and Chanyeol can see his natural black beginning to grow back in under the blond. With the same hand, he pushes Jongin’s shirt up his stomach and toys with one of his nipples.

Jongin’s back arches, more noises of pleasure spilling from his mouth.

This time Chanyeol can hear Sehun: “I’m close, about to come.”

His voice is a low rumble.

Jongin pulls his hand from his mouth and wraps it around his cock.

They’re both breathing raggedly and Chanyeol is having difficulty restraining sounds of his own.

After a few moments, Sehun gasps and stills his hips and Chanyeol shudders, realizing he’s hit his orgasm.

Seconds later, Jongin orgasms as well, semen spurting across his chest.

The view is so obscene that it’s almost alluring.

Before either of them can shake the lustful haze and notice Chanyeol, he slips back into the hall and up the stairs, supporting himself against the railing.

He climbs into bed but doesn’t fool himself into thinking he’ll get much sleep. He squints at the hands on the clock: quarter to two.

Every time he closes his eyes, he sees Jongin—young, innocent, Jongin—and Sehun, the emotionless pseudo-beatnik.

He can’t let Jongin get arrested simply for sex—for all Chanyeol knows, this could have been a one-off occasion.

But on the other hand, it’s his right as an officer of the law to uphold American values, and what he witnessed was a blatant crime.

Chanyeol groans, massaging his temples gently and trying to will away his lingering arousal.

It’s going to be a long night.

 

 

 

 

When Chanyeol wakes, he’s surprised he had managed to sleep.

It’s only quarter to nine as well, and when he swings his feet around and places them on the ground, the movement doesn’t send the world spinning to compensate. A minor chill is clinging to him but it’s hardly a shadow of what he felt yesterday.

His stomach is gurgling, pleading for the food it didn’t receive yesterday so he dresses quickly and serves himself an American breakfast—thick cut toast and strawberry jam with scrambled eggs and sausages.

“Good morning, sir.”

Chanyeol looks over his shoulder and freezes when he sees Jongin smiling at him from farther along the buffet. He’s replacing the empty pitcher of orange juice with a full one.

Last night’s exploit suddenly floods back into his mind—Jongin sweaty and moaning with his legs willingly spread, allowing Sehun to take him…

And where anybody could have seen them, too. What if it had been Baekhyun or Kyungsoo rather than Chanyeol? Perhaps the two of them wouldn’t have their jobs anymore.

“Mhm…morning,” Chanyeol mumbles, turning to face Jongin.

His eyes begin roaming down his body, vividly recalling his naked figure, and he shivers.

“How are you feeling today?” Jongin steps closer, frowning. “You still look a little flushed.”

Chanyeol nods, not letting on that the pink in his cheeks is from the memory of Jongin’s erection. His fingers tighten around the edge of his plate.

“I think I just need to sit and… eat something.”

“Very well, sir,” Jongin chirps with a brisk bow.

Today, Chanyeol opts for a seat inside, near the fireplace, with his jaw set tightly.

What he really needs is a cigarette. He snatches a Camel out of the new pack in his breast pocket and lights it, stomach whining in protest.

He watches Jongin running in and out of the kitchen. There seems to always be some dish or pitcher in need of refilling, but every time he exits the kitchen he has a few seconds to spare for grinning and joking with Sehun.

Chanyeol wonders in they’ve ever…  _fooled around_  in the kitchen before.

He takes a long drag, pursing his lips around the cigarette in disdain, then tilts his head back to blow out the smoke and watch it float lazily towards the high ceiling.

When the cigarette has smouldered down to nothing, he extinguishes it in the ashtray on the table and picks up a slice of his toast.

Chanyeol can hardly finish half the plate before his body starts protesting another bite. He pushes his plate away and waits until Jongin has ducked into the kitchen to make his escape—he’d rather they not share anymore conversations today.

When he exits into the lobby, the first thing to catch him off guard is Kyungsoo—he’s working reception. Usually his shift isn’t until evening.

Chanyeol approaches him as he would a stray dog that may or may not be rabid; certainly he can’t have had much sleep.

“Good morning.”

Kyungsoo nods but doesn’t return the greeting.

“Er… Is Baekhyun off today?”

Kyungsoo huffs quietly, then tilts his head to indicate direction.

Chanyeol glances over his shoulder and finds Baekhyun and Minseok sitting near the television chatting, both dressed impeccably. He briefly wonders why they decided on such sharp suits until he remembers that it’s Sunday; church.

Interesting—neither of them had struck him as the religious type, and especially not Minseok.

Baekhyun notices Chanyeol first, leaping to his feet.

“How are you feeling today?”

Chanyeol smiles, appreciating the concern.

“Better.”

Baekhyun’s shoulders settle and his eyes light up with relief.

“Good, I’m glad.”

“We’re off to the old church,” Minseok chimes in from his seat. “Would you care to join us for today’s service?”

‘Us’ appears to be only the two of them.

Chanyeol is not a churchgoer, not since he moved out of his parents’ home and abandoned their rules.

However, he doesn’t have any specific plans for the day, and… there a few things he can think of to pray about.

“I suppose I could,” he replies.

 

The ‘old church’ is a few blocks north, past the residential area. It’s a small brick building with an unspectacular stained glass window in the middle and two doors on either side.

Stuck in the lawn is a sign reading ‘Korean United Presbyterian Church’ with the Hangul overtop.

The three of them file inside, each being handed a pamphlet—an Order of Worship—then finding an empty pew.

The pamphlet is written in Korean and riddled with biblical terms that Chanyeol recognizes from childhood but can’t for the life of him recall the meaning of, so he sets it aside.

There are several small, gold chandeliers dangling from the ceiling, as well as a bleary stained-glass depiction of the Virgin Mary behind the pulpit.

As they wait for the sermon to begin, Chanyeol investigates the bibles tucked into the back of the pew before them.

Baekhyun looks over at him and asks, “Have you ever read the Bible?”

He’s tried, unsuccessfully.

“No,” he replies.

The story is interesting, but the details are dull and dragging.

Minseok leans into Baekhyun’s side so they can both hear him, and mutters, “Dry as ash in the desert, if you ask me.”

Baekhyun chuckles.

“And when was it that I asked you?”

Chanyeol grins.

This atmosphere is wrong… He’s responding like he would with friends, but these are not his friends. These are suspects in a murder case, and he needs to remember not to let his guard down.

Organ music suddenly blares within the church, and parents begin shushing their children as the opening hymn begins.

Chanyeol doesn’t recognize the song, but even if he did he wouldn’t sing. Throughout his whole life he’s been uncomfortable with the prospect of there being a benevolent, all-powerful spirit watching him at every moment. When his parents would sing worship in their local chapel, he stood solemnly by their side with his mouth shut tight, embarrassed to have to praise a magical entity in the sky. Chanyeol respects the merits of religion and prays occasionally, but deep inside his heart, there’s an empty hole—no God.

The song fades to a close and a tall, frail man in his sixties or so steps up behind the pulpit—the pastor. He’s dressed in usual church attire: black, save for the white strip of a collar at his throat.

He gestures for everyone to sit.

“We shall begin this service with a prayer.”

From the corner of his eye, Chanyeol notices Baekhyun bow his head.

“Heavenly Father,” the pastor begins, “Please bless us on this day. May You guide us in all that we do, keep us safe in the face of danger, and pure in the face of sin.”

Chanyeol’s gaze gravitates to the two beside him who both have their eyes shut. Baekhyun’s hands are clasped in his lap while Minseok’s foot is tapping absently.

“Show us the path to Heaven, and deliver us from the path to Hell. In Your name we pray, Amen.”

Muttered ‘Amen’s flutter through the congregation.

“Sad news has come,” the pastor says. “And despite our differences, we cannot, with holy hearts, disregard such a tragedy. The Bishop of Rome is dead.”

There is a moment of silence. An image of the pope sitting within the Vatican flashes through Chanyeol’s mind—round spectacles, dark beady eyes—he wasn’t a friendly looking man.

“His passing was swift,” the pastor says, “…but his final years were plagued. The medicine they fed him devoured his mind, sending visions of Hell as he slept, then woke, screaming and begging for mercy.”

The picture in Chanyeol’s head begins to alter. His skin becomes translucent, fingers turning skeletal and eyes dropping from his head, leaving dark, vacant holes in his skull. The rosary around his neck snaps off and falls to the ground.

“He requested his organs remain intact, the way God intended, but his embalming failed, and his lifeless form quickly began to decompose.”

Gasps pass through the congregation.

Chanyeol sees a metal bier with the pope’s body laid across it—his flesh rotting and falling off within seconds and black liquid oozing from his eyes and mouth.

“May his trip to Heaven be tranquil.”

The corpse’s chest swells and swells until it explodes, flesh spattering the walls and floor.

“Let us now bow our heads, and repent our sins unto God and be forgiven.”

Chanyeol bows his head this time. 

_May… May God forgive me. Forgive me for peeping and failing to report such a sin._

_My mind is being intruded,_ _corrupted, by… by thoughts that are… impure, disgusting, illegal, immoral, vulgar, wrong._

_…Thoughts of homosexuality._

“…In the name of the Lord,” the pastor commands attention, “you shall be forgiven.”

Chanyeol keeps his eyes downcast for the rest of the sermon.

 

“What should I call my hotel?”

Baekhyun grins, setting his newspaper aside when he notices Chanyeol.

He’s changed his outfit into something more casual and taken up his regular place behind the reception desk again, sending Kyungsoo off to God knows where.

“In the story, I mean,” Chanyeol clarifies.

“Something menacing, I assume,” Baekhyun replies, “‘Dead Man’s Inn’ or ‘Bloodlust Hotel’?”

Chanyeol laughs.

“Would  _you_ check into a hotel called ‘Dead Man’s Inn’?”

Baekhyun purses his lips to hide a smile.

“I’m sure if I was persuaded by someone special,” he reasons with a smirk, “then I would feel safe enough.”

Chanyeol smiles at the thought of Baekhyun ducking behind him for protection.

“Is it set in California?” he asks.

“Here in L.A., if that’s not too forward.”

Baekhyun shrugs.

“It makes no difference to me. Maybe it will reel in some extra guests.”

Chanyeol is aching to ask deeper questions, draw out the answers he’s looking for; he’s growing restless with the case and needs something to follow.

“…Could you tell me about the missing people?”

Baekhyun stills.

“No…”

He focusses his gaze on the countertop.

“…But only because I don’t know about them myself.”

When he looks back up at Chanyeol his brows are furrowed slightly, inquisitive.

“They’re all young Asian men, I thought you might have met them,” Chanyeol explains, “Dong Sicheng? Nakamoto Yuta? Lee Taeyong?”

Baekhyun’s mouth opens slightly—he obviously recognizes the names.

“…Missing?” he asks.

Chanyeol can’t tell if it’s a genuine question or a murmur of disbelief.

Either way, he nods.

Baekhyun’s expression slowly darkens, intense concentration clouding his mind. He begins flipping through his registration book, eventually settling on one page then sliding his fingers down until he finds what he’s looking for.

“No…” he murmurs after a moment.

Chanyeol leans in.

“Did they stay here?”

“No—well, yes, but…”

He flips to another page and does the same thing. Baekhyun looks up at him, appearing more confused now than anything else.

“…Those men all checked out. Look.”

He spins the book around and pushes it across the desk.

Baekhyun’s finger lands on a name—‘Lee Taeyong’—then slides across to the date of check-out, ‘January 19, 1958’, and finally to his signature.

Chanyeol remembers, without a shadow of a doubt, that his ‘missing’ report was filed on January the 23rd—he was expected home in Sacramento on the morning of the 21st but never arrived. According to the family, he had a blood-sugar imbalance and occasionally suffered fainting spells so they were worried he may have fallen and injured himself.

Baekhyun flips back several pages.

‘Nakamoto Yuta, July 30, 1957’, and a signature.

Chanyeol could ask him to keep going, to show him the name of every missing person, but he doesn’t need to see; he believes it.

“I know this seems like a bit of a dead-end for your plot,” Baekhyun mutters, “but I just… don’t see how anyone in the hotel could attack and kill someone after they've already checked-out. They're gone.”

Baekhyun pauses.

“Unless…”

His eyes grow distant, chasing an idea through his mind.

When he snaps out of it he murmurs, “You said there were… what? Seven? Eight missing people? We've had dozens—probably over  _a hundred_  people check out in the last four months. What if all the victims happened upon the same person while still in town? The same shop or… café, perhaps?”

Baekhyun is gnawing on his lip, appearing afraid of both being correct and being ridiculed for his guess.

“That's…” Chanyeol considers. “…actually plausible.”

Frighteningly plausible.

He looks at Baekhyun.

“I think you might be on to something.”

“Oh God, really?” Baekhyun looks ill.

Chanyeol begins to panic. Has he been wrong all this time? Is there someone else in town who is killing these men? Just because they were all last seen at the hotel doesn’t mean they hadn’t been abducted off the streets or drawn into another nearby establishment.

Chanyeol hurries to his room, unclamping his briefcase and analyzing every report with a new perspective.

Johnny Seo, Kim Dongyoung, Moon Taeil…

Maybe the only difference between the murdered and missing people is that the people found in the hotel had a room to return to. If the missing guests had all checked out, they could’ve died in their cars, by the bay, or even in a back alley and never have their bodies identified because they were so far from home.

Chanyeol has dedicated his life to protecting the law, but that doesn’t make the police force he values and defends any more inclined to care about coloured people.

Now… Someone who doesn’t live or work in this hotel would have no idea of who is a guest and who isn’t.

Chanyeol’s blood chills when he realizes exactly who fits that bill, and who Baekhyun had been alluding to earlier.

Junmyeon.

Chanyeol tears out a fresh sheet of paper and begins scribbling madly.

His friendly demeanour bordering on frenzied—he’s developing trust. And his secluded kitchen could be hiding anything, unlike the hotel which Chanyeol has seen into every room of except the manager’s quarters; if they were brazen enough to murder anyone with nothing but a thin wall separating them from the lobby, they surely would have been caught already.

The café is small enough to be unassuming, and right next to a hotel… He could have a near perfect alibi.

But how is he doing it?

 

_“Hello?”_

“Jongdae.” Chanyeol wastes no time. “Do you know of any poisons that are untraceable within the body after death?”

Jongdae sighs.

_“Listen, if you’re just calling me about—”_

“No, no no no,” Chanyeol hisses, lowering his voice. “There’s this little café right next to the hotel and I think… I think I’ve found something big. If this turns out to be what I think it is…”

He knows discussing the case isn’t going to convince Jongdae to help him, so he says, “…I can be home soon. Maybe tomorrow.”

A crinkling noise travels down the line.

_“…Tomorrow?”_

Chanyeol nods.

“Only if you help me look up some information. Can you check for poisons—maybe something plant based—that can’t be traced in an autopsy?”

Jongdae clears his throat.

_“Well… I remember working a case where ricin was used. And one with aconite. They’re both plant-based and didn’t show up in the autopsy. Luckily the perp was clumsy.”_

Chanyeol purses his lips.

“Do either of those cause a delayed onset of symptoms?”

Jongdae hums in consideration for a few moments.

_“Ricin is instantaneous… But I think aconite takes a few hours.”_

Chanyeol feels like the answer to this case is just beyond his grasp.

 _“Actually…”_ Jongdae sounds hesitant now. _“Aconite usually causes vascular arrhythmias and… heart paralysis.”_

The realization hits Chanyeol and he clings to the lead like a lifeline.

“Jongdae, you’re a genius. When this is all over, I’ll buy you dinner.”

Chanyeol makes to hang up, but stops when Jongdae’s tinny, _“Yah!”_ bursts from the receiver.

He lifts the telephone to his ear.

“What?”

_“…Be careful.”_

They’re his parting words, the line going dead hardly a second later.

Chanyeol hangs the telephone up and crosses the street, entering Junmyeon’s café with a pounding heart.

There are a few moments of unnerving silence before the clatter of a pot lid scares Chanyeol half to death.

Junmyeon pops his head out from behind the curtain.

“Oh! Chanyeol!”

He dips back into the kitchen for a moment, creating some more clatter, before coming out to properly greet him.

“How are you?” He tilts his head in curiosity. “You weren’t looking very well yesterday, if I may say so.”

“Fine, thank you. Mind if I smoke?”

He needs to focus his attention as much as possible.

Junmyeon waves his arm dismissively.

“Not at all.”

Chanyeol lights up his cigarette and takes a seat at the counter, sliding the nearest ashtray closer.

The café is empty besides the two of them; it’s too late for lunch and too early for dinner.

“Can I get you anything to eat?” Junmyeon asks.

“I’m afraid I’ve already eaten. I actually just came to talk.”

Junmyeon is shocked momentarily.

“I-I…” He stutters then laughs. “Of course, I’d be happy to.”

Chanyeol nods approvingly.

“Are you much of a gardener?”

Aconite, or wolf’s bane, is a beautiful flower—Chanyeol vaguely remembers being taught about it in his toxicology course at the academy.

The ‘queen of poisons’, so it’s called.

Junmyeon frowns at the bizarre question.

“Not really, no. I do love plants but I can’t say they love me. And you? How’s your green thumb?”

Chanyeol blows his smoke over to the side.

“Awful,” he chuckles, “but it doesn’t stop my interest in flowers. My wife grows all sorts: tulips, daffodils, even wolf’s bane. Have you heard of it?”

Chanyeol’s being reckless but he’s far past caring at this point.

Junmyeon tilts his head.

“Isn’t that… poisonous?”

Chanyeol nods, taking another drag.

Junmyeon laughs nervously.

“Aren’t you afraid of… well, dying?”

“No,” Chanyeol shrugs, “I’m careful. Although I don’t exactly know what a lethal dose is.”

Junmyeon furrows his brows, considering.

“I’m sure it wouldn’t take any more than twenty millilitres or so,” he says, then breaks into a grin. “Just don’t tell your wife that.”

The corner of Chanyeol’s mouth quirks up.

“Right,” he mumbles.

It’s not enough—he needs something solid.

“I’m also quite interested in cooking, believe it or not.”

Junmyeon perks right up, eyes glowing. It’s rare for men who aren’t trained or have culinary backgrounds to have any interest in food.

“Really? Just a hobby, or are you looking at it as a career?”

Chanyeol shakes his head.

“No, no, nothing that serious; it’s just a hobby.”

“Would you like some tips? I’ve been cooking since I was a boy; nearly twenty years now.”

Chanyeol puts out his cigarette and grins.

“I’d love some,” he says.

“Come on, then, don’t be shy.”

Junmyeon makes for the kitchen, beckoning Chanyeol to follow.

After a second to steel himself, he does.

Junmyeon holds the curtain aside, watching Chanyeol expectantly until he passes through, then lets it drop, fluttering back into place with the intensity of a slammed door.

 

_“Why must I meet you in a secret rendezvous-vous?_

_Why must we steal away to steal a kiss or two?”_

Chanyeol blinks. He’s been staring at the same fan palm for a half an hour.

The lobby has been steadily emptying for as long as Chanyeol has been sitting here thinking—two hours or so. The restaurant has been closed for over an hour and he had watched as Sehun climbed the staircase to, well, presumably to his own room.

Night has fallen and the hotel is glowing softly with the light of the old lamps.

He’d found nothing in Junmyeon’s kitchen—no poison, no hidden room—not even a clue. He’s no closer to the answer than he had been yesterday.

The radio is still warbling away behind him; it does nothing to soothe the stressful weight that has settled in his stomach. 

_“Why must we wait to do the things we want to do?_

_Why, oh why, oh why oh why oh why?”_

Chanyeol feels a gentle hand settle on his shoulder.

“Chanyeol… It's late.”

Baekhyun's voice is so much softer and silkier now than it is during the day.

“You should go to bed.”

Half of him wants to lash out and half of him wants to pull Baekhyun close, and Chanyeol isn't sure which would be worse, so he does nothing.

Baekhyun moves around him, kneeling at the foot of his chair, and places a hand on his leg.

“Don't worry. The greatest stories weren’t made in a week. With your talent, I’m sure the epiphany will strike at any moment. It won't hurt you to take your time.”

Chanyeol nearly laughs because of course it could; he could be killed.

“…Are you okay, Chanyeol?”

Baekhyun casts him a look that feels like safety.

Chanyeol furrows his brows.

“…No.”

Baekhyun nods a little, otherwise not responding. He stands again and moves back behind the chair.

_“Wish he didn’t have to meet secretly,_

_Wish we didn’t have to kiss secretly,_

_Wish we didn’t have to be afraid,_

_To show the world we’re in love.”_

Moments pass, accompanied only by the radio, and it isn't until now that Chanyeol realizes they are entirely alone in the lobby—no guests, no staff, no one.

Baekhyun's hands slide down his shoulders and over his chest and his breath tickles Chanyeol's neck.

“…Would you like me to help you feel better?”

Chanyeol's breath catches in his throat and an unfamiliar feeling floods his body, drowning out his stress.

Baekhyun presses his nose just behind his ear, where his skull meets his jaw.

“My bedroom is just there.”

He gestures across the lobby to the manager’s quarters.

Chanyeol can hear his own heart beating, he can feel the conflict twisting in his stomach.

‘No’, is what you’re trying to say, _‘no’_. He’s too afraid that if he opens his mouth, he’ll say ‘yes’, so he doesn’t reply.

Baekhyun’s hands cautiously begin to unbutton Chanyeol’s jacket and the panic response kicks in.

He throws Baekhyun’s arms off and dashes up the stairs and into his room. He shuts and locks the door then slides to the floor, breathing heavily. 

 _“This is not good,”_  he whispers. _“This cannot happen.”_  

His mind is saying one thing and his body another, trembling with want and simultaneous self-loathing.

A few minutes later, a knock reverberates down through his spine.

“…Chanyeol.” 

 _No, no, no._  

“I just—” Baekhyun's voice drops a little, “—I want to apologize for what I did earlier and… for what I said.”

Chanyeol's nails drive into the heel of his palm, leaving deep, purplish crescents in the skin.

On the other side of the door, Baekhyun continues.

“It was inappropriate, and I am truly sorry.”

Chanyeol digs the heel of one hand into his eye socket, massaging roughly until colour bursts behind his eyelid.

“I understand if you want to check-out tomorrow, or even tonight, but—”

Chanyeol stands and opens the door. He opens his mouth to speak but can’t decide what to say.

He looks between Baekhyun’s eyes—mostly apologetic but just a little bit hurt—and grabs him by the collar with little regard for the consequences.

He pulls him inside and slams the door and he can tell by Baekhyun’s paling face that he thinks he’s about to be punched.

Chanyeol pushes him roughly against the door and kisses him, swallowing Baekhyun’s surprised moan.

His fingers curl around the fabric of Baekhyun’s jacket to cease the shaking his self-loathing has raised.

It hardly takes a moment before Baekhyun is kissing back, hands on either side of Chanyeol’s face. He kisses as if he’s starved—as if he hasn’t been touched in years—and it just fuels Chanyeol, shutting down each objection as it surfaces.

One hand slides from Chanyeol’s face down his neck, yanking the knot of his tie to loosen it before steadily unbuttoning then untucking his shirt and undershirt.

Chanyeol moves both hands around to Baekhyun’s ass. He feels so small beneath him—Chanyeol could pick him up if he wanted. When he gives a squeeze, Baekhyun breaks their kiss and whimpers.

He rises onto his toes and pushes Chanyeol’s jacket and shirt off his shoulders, followed by his undershirt over his head. He runs both hands across the warm expanse of Chanyeol’s back and pulls him closer, settling his face into the crook of his neck.

Baekhyun tugs gently on his earlobe with his teeth before beginning to suck a mark into Chanyeol’s neck.

A low groan escapes Chanyeol’s parted lips and he involuntarily rolls his hips, gasping when he finds friction in Baekhyun’s half-erect cock.

Baekhyun begins kissing down his chest and flicks his tongue back and forth over Chanyeol’s nipple.

He keens—it’s an entirely unfamiliar sensation, and not something he’d ever considered.

Baekhyun’s mouth is hot on his chest and his hands are snaking lower and lower.

He halts them at the waistband of Chanyeol’s pants, playing with the fabric while he kisses his way back up and captures Chanyeol’s lips once more.

Baekhyun grabs his hips and maneuvers him backwards until his legs hit the bed. They momentarily break the kiss and Chanyeol settles on the bed, Baekhyun straddling his lap.

They move together, panting for breath while their hands explore each other’s bodies.

Chanyeol slides his hands down Baekhyun’s front, becoming momentarily disoriented and breaking the kiss when he finds no breasts to hold.

Baekhyun laughs, brushing a few stray strands of hair away from Chanyeol’s eyes.

“Bit of a surprise, I know.”

Baekhyun places his hands over top of Chanyeol’s and brushes his fingers over his nipples, obviously hard through his shirt. He tilts his head to the side and groans, his grasp on Chanyeol’s hands tightening.

Chanyeol assumes control, flicking his thumbs over Baekhyun’s nipples and pinching them briefly.

“Ah!”

Baekhyun arches back.

He begins canting his hips faintly, searching for friction.

Chanyeol glances down between their bodies and bites back a moan when he sees the prominent bulge in Baekhyun’s pants.

Chanyeol grabs his hips and drags him forward so their erections press against each other.

Baekhyun pulls him back into a kiss, one hand dropping between their legs, stroking and kneading as best as he can with so much fabric interfering.

Chanyeol fumbles with the buttons on Baekhyun’s shirt but he doesn’t seem to mind, patient with his efforts.

When Chanyeol slides off the outer layers, Baekhyun sits back—Chanyeol holds his hips for support—and pulls his undershirt over his head.

His upper body is lithe but with accents of muscle, only considered small in comparison to Chanyeol.

With hands on his shoulders, Baekhyun urges Chanyeol back, into a vertical position.

He leans down for a kiss and grinds their erections together, concentrating on the friction until their kisses grow distracted and careless.

Chanyeol runs his hands down Baekhyun’s arms, pulling back when he feels a bit of mottled skin on his left bicep. There’s a small, discoloured scar just below his shoulder.

“War,” is all Baekhyun says before pressing their lips back together.

Chanyeol does vaguely remember being told about a gunshot wound, but doesn’t let his mind stray any farther than that, dragging his thoughts back to Baekhyun’s lip between his teeth.

He’s beginning to shiver with a restless want for _more_.

Between kisses Baekhyun murmurs, “I want you,” and Chanyeol can only nod in agreement.

“On the bed,” he orders, climbing off Chanyeol’s lap.

Chanyeol shuffles further up on the bed, not entirely sure what is to follow—usually the woman is the one on her back.

Baekhyun urges Chanyeol’s legs apart and kneels between them. He starts to press open-mouthed kisses against Chanyeol’s chest, steadily moving down until he’s at the waist of his slacks.

The realization strikes suddenly and Chanyeol’s cheeks grow hot—he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

Where do his hands go? Where does his gaze settle?

Baekhyun undoes the button and drags down the zipper, gaze briefly flicking up to catch Chanyeol’s.

“Has a woman ever done this to you before?”

Chanyeol shudders and shakes his head.

“No? Shame…”

Baekhyun carefully slides his briefs back over his erection.

“…It feels wonderful.”

His cock is red and arching, already so hard that it’s nearly painful.

Baekhyun wraps his fingers—delicate fingers—around Chanyeol’s cock and pumps it. His movements are so gentle and refined that Chanyeol briefly questions whether he’s been doing it improperly to himself for all these years.

Baekhyun begins kissing up his erection—chaste kisses, like his mother would lay on his cheek.

When he reaches the head, he licks across the tip and Chanyeol shudders.

“You want this?” Baekhyun asks and Chanyeol doesn’t want to have to answer.

He averts his gaze and nods curtly, trying to fool whichever powers may be watching into thinking it was just an unintentional jolt of his head.

Baekhyun hums, stroking Chanyeol again.

“Because I want this, so badly.”

It bumps Chanyeol’s self-confidence up minutely and he turns his head to watch.

Baekhyun presses his tongue to the base of his cock and licks slowly— _agonizingly_ —up to the tip before wrapping his lips around the head.

His mouth is so hot, Chanyeol is already squirming. It’s similar to being inside a woman but… not as tight and—

Baekhyun swirls his tongue briefly around the head and Chanyeol gasps.

—more detailed.

He begins bobbing his head, gradually taking more and more of his cock into his mouth.

Chanyeol can feel a pressure in his erection that’s somehow different from sex and realizes Baekhyun is actually sucking on him. It’s incredibly lewd and Chanyeol’s cheeks are flaming but the heat in his chest is starting to drown out everything else.

Baekhyun’s tongue is deft—infuriatingly so. He presses it against all the right places, massaging Chanyeol’s cock.

He has obviously done this before; perhaps with Sehun or Jongin.

Baekhyun wraps a hand around the base and begins to stroke Chanyeol, trailing his lips. It’s more firm than before, gliding easily with his spit as lubrication.

Chanyeol groans, hands fisting into the bedsheets.

The sensation is one thing, but the view is something else entirely; Baekhyun’s lips, perfectly pink and slicked with spit, sliding up and down his cock from base to head and back again.

Baekhyun grabs Chanyeol’s hands and places them on his head, fingers twining into his hair.

Chanyeol realizes quickly enough that this is to put him in control of the pace and he experiments with his new power.

He holds Baekhyun’s head back for a moment and his mouth lolls open, tongue swiping over the pre-come dribbling down the head of his cock.

Chanyeol nearly curses, and releases his hold.

Baekhyun glances up and Chanyeol can see a glint of entertainment in his eyes.

He tightens his grip in Baekhyun’s hair, urging him to move faster.

Baekhyun complies with ease, both hands settling on Chanyeol’s hips.

With the added speed comes added depth and when Chanyeol’s cock bumps the back of Baekhyun’s throat, he tenses, nearly arching off the bed with the pleasure of that foreign feeling.

Chanyeol is panting, and when Baekhyun moans, he yelps, feeling the sound vibrate along the length of his erection and further, down into his pelvis.

Chanyeol’s cock twitches inside Baekhyun’s mouth, growing even harder, and he has to gasp, “S-stop.”

Baekhyun pops off with a sound that should be more disgusting than it is arousing.

With loss of direct stimulation, Chanyeol manages to clear his head enough to realize that he is well and truly at a loss. Sleeping with a man can’t be much different from sleeping with a woman, but the uncertainty is giving him pause.

When he sleeps with women, he has a set plan of what to do and when to do it—it’s methodical. Kissing, undressing, touching her breasts, attaining an erection, fingers, full-penetration, orgasm. It isn’t arbitrary guesswork like this is.

Thankfully, Baekhyun takes charge, once again straddling his lap and drawing Chanyeol into a heated kiss.

In the back of his mind, Chanyeol realizes that this is repugnant—kissing a man whose mouth was only just around your cock—but his mind isn’t in charge right now and he feels such an overwhelming arousal that he isn’t interesting in fighting it.

His hands slide from Baekhyun’s hair down his naked back, fingers only barely dipping beneath the band of his pants.

Against his lips, Baekhyun breathes, “I want you inside of me,” and words abandon Chanyeol.

He turns his head to the side, too overwhelmed with stimulation to think properly.

Baekhyun rocks his hips casually, sitting up with his hands on Chanyeol’s chest.

“Is that a yes?”

Chanyeol looks up at him. The playful smirk on Baekhyun’s face makes Chanyeol think it isn’t much of a question.

“…Yes.” His voice cracks and he swallows roughly.

When Baekhyun receives the answer he wants, he closes his eyes and begins to rock faster.

“A-ah!” Chanyeol cries, nails driving into the soft skin of Baekhyun’s hips.

The friction of fabric against his bare cock is painful, but not enough to want to push him away.

When Baekhyun relents and sits back on his thighs, Chanyeol realizes—belatedly—that this won’t work the way it does with women.

They need lubricant.

Baekhyun seems to realize this at the very same moment.

“I—Sehun has Vaseline; give me a tick.”

He darts out into the hallway—shirtless and frenzied—and returns within a minute, slamming the door behind him and dropping the Vaseline on the bedside table.

He climbs on top of Chanyeol and pulls him back into a kiss, undoing his own pants with one hand. The other hand caresses Chanyeol’s face, his thumb swiping tenderly across his cheek.

The kiss lessens in haste and increases in sensuality; Baekhyun traces Chanyeol’s bottom lip with his tongue before sucking it into his mouth and gently tugging. He releases it and pecks Chanyeol on the lips.

Their lips part naturally, tongues feeling out one another.

Chanyeol briefly opens his eyes just to see Baekhyun’s desire, his brow creased with concentration.

Baekhyun draws back slowly, eyes opening to meet Chanyeol’s.

He pushes himself up off the bed and slips out of his slacks.

Chanyeol’s eyes immediately fall between his legs—he isn’t wearing any underwear.

He’s never seen an erection, other than his own, so close before and he can’t bring himself to look away. It’s flushed pink and arching toward the ceiling, bobbing between his legs with every movement.

Baekhyun gives himself a few solid strokes; his hand is confident and unashamed.

“Like what you see?” he murmurs, studying Chanyeol’s face.

Chanyeol parts his lips to speak but ends up simply nodding.

Baekhyun slides both Chanyeol’s pants and briefs down and off his feet then climbs back on top of him.

When he presses their bare cocks together Chanyeol shudders—it’s so unrestricted and far more intimate.

Baekhyun presses a chaste kiss to his lips before flipping their positions so he’s lying across the bed. He draws his knees up on either side of Chanyeol’s hips, breath growing tighter as he exposes himself.

Chanyeol sits back on his knees and grabs under Baekhyun’s thighs, pushing them back for a better look.

Baekhyun’s little moan doesn’t seem embarrassed or self-conscious as much as needy and impatient.

From here on out, it’s pretty similar, Chanyeol assumes. He unscrews the tub of Vaseline and dips his fingers in, spreading the lubricant around easily before pressing his middle finger inside Baekhyun.

He yelps, knees snapping together on a jerk reaction and Chanyeol suddenly realizes that may have been a wrong move; this feels tighter than—

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Baekhyun pants when he notices Chanyeol’s uncertain wide eyes. “It’s good, it just takes a minute to get used to.”

Chanyeol lets out a relieved sigh, taking Baekhyun’s unspoken advice and keeping still for several moments.

Baekhyun’s breathing evens out and his knees fall open again. He starts rolling his hips, trying to press more of the finger inside.

“Move it,” he breathes. “In and out.”

Chanyeol suppresses a laugh; he’s not entirely incompetent. He begins pumping his finger before curling it and gently stroking within Baekhyun.

“More,” he groans, “Another one.”

Chanyeol takes more caution upon slipping the second finger inside. Baekhyun clenches around him, his mouth opening in a silent release of pleasure.

Chanyeol waits for his body to relax before pressing deeper and curling his fingers at the knuckles. He drags them down and Baekhyun jumps, fist slamming down upon the mattress and back arching. His moan is carnal and far too loud to go unheard.

…That doesn’t happen with women.

Chanyeol repeats the action and Baekhyun tosses his head to the side.

“ _Fuck!_ ” Baekhyun hisses.

His hands are tight in the sheets.

“That’s so nice, so fucking good.”

His curses shock Chanyeol; blunt, crude,  _vulgar_  words which he rarely hears spoken, but which immediately throb between his legs.

He strokes past the sweet spot once more and sends Baekhyun panting for breath, stomach clenched to the point of restricting air.

“I c-can’t—you have to stop,” he gasps. “J-just—another finger.”

Chanyeol swells with pride at the effect he’s having on Baekhyun.

He adds one more finger—his chest is beginning to ache with restlessness, desperate for more. Baekhyun adjusts much more quickly than before, biting his lip and grinding down onto Chanyeol’s hand.

“I want you to fuck me,” Baekhyun whimpers.

Chanyeol is practically shaking with want and the perverted language is only spurring him on.

“I want it so bad. I’ve been thinking about this since the day you checked-in and— _God_ —I can’t get it out of my head.”

“Yes, yes, please,” Chanyeol replies, babbling more than anything.

He slides his fingers out and looks around briefly for a condom before realizing he doesn’t need one—there’s no way to get a man pregnant.

He spreads a generous amount of Vaseline along his erection and presses the head against Baekhyun’s hole.

Chanyeol can hear his blood pumping, pounding in his ears.

Baekhyun hoists his legs up and hooks his ankles over Chanyeol’s shoulders. His eyes are heavily-lidded and his brow is crinkled with just enough desperation.

“Please,” he breathes.

Chanyeol pushes the head in and Baekhyun’s face immediately screws up in pleasure, a gasp escaping his lungs.

He presses against Chanyeol’s shoulder with his foot, holding him back from pushing in deeper until he’s adjusted to the size.

When he gently hooks his ankle behind Chanyeol’s neck he assumes it’s safe to continue, and pushes, cautiously, all the way in until his hips are flush against Baekhyun’s thighs.

Chanyeol’s low groan comes out sounding more like a desperate plea. He pauses for a few seconds—Baekhyun is so much tighter than a woman and the pressure steals the breath from his lungs.

“I-I…  _Christ_ , y-you’re so big,” Baekhyun whimpers, voice quivering.

His hands are clenching and unclenching around the pillow under his head and Chanyeol has to focus on the simple movement to keep his arousal contained.

After a few moments, Baekhyun’s arms relax against the sheets and he murmurs, “P-please move.”

Chanyeol doesn’t need to be asked twice, hands sliding up Baekhyun’s waist. He draws his hips back and the initial movement causes Baekhyun to unintentionally clench back around him. As gently as he can manage, Chanyeol slides back in and receives a long, low hum in response, so he does it once more.

Baekhyun reaches down to stroke his own erection and Chanyeol watches him, mesmerized by his thin, deft hands and the red, flared head of his cock peeking out from his fist.

Baekhyun chuckles.

“You’ve stopped moving. Like it when I put on a show for you?”

Chanyeol feels a flush tickle his ears but nods nonetheless.

“Yeah? I can do more if you’d like.”

Another nod.

Baekhyun grabs one of Chanyeol’s hands and raises it to his mouth, kissing the pads of his fingers before sucking two into his mouth, eyes fluttering shut. He moans, quietly first, then a little louder, slipping his tongue between Chanyeol’s fingers and pushing them deeper into his mouth—if Chanyeol could grow any more erect than he already is, it would occur right about now. Baekhyun begins sliding his fingers in and out of his mouth, like he’d done with Chanyeol’s cock, then opens his mouth so Chanyeol can watch.

A shiver works from the base of Chanyeol’s spine straight up to the top of his head despite the heat encompassing his body.

Baekhyun slips the fingers out of his mouth and guides them down onto his cock.

“Now I need you to start moving again,” he murmurs.

Mouth agape, Chanyeol nods.

He pulls back, further this time, before snapping his hips forward.

Baekhyun cries out and slams his hands down by his sides. His ankles press painfully into Chanyeol’s shoulders.

“Yes! Fuck, yes, again, like that!” he sobs.

Chanyeol repeats the movement and Baekhyun gasps, his body quivering. Chanyeol realizes he must be hitting the same spot as he had with his fingers, but the reaction is multiplied tenfold.

“F-f-fuck,” Baekhyun shakes, “Keep going.”

This time, Chanyeol keeps his motions consistent—pulling out, pushing in, out, in, out, in.

It’s so similar to making love to a woman, but at the same time, infinitely different.

He begins tugging sloppily at Baekhyun’s erection to match each of his thrusts and a high, breathy whimper eventually emerges alongside them.

When Baekhyun begins rolling his hips, Chanyeol takes it as a cue to move faster.

The pace picks up, and Baekhyun’s moans along with it.

“Mm—mm—yes—so—good!” he shudders.

This feels so much more primal, more natural than with women, as if everything—every sound and thought and feeling—is vulnerable out in the open.

Baekhyun wraps his hand around Chanyeol’s, squeezing tighter and fucking up into their fists with a gasp.

As Chanyeol climbs higher, he can still hear his mind whispering: _‘This is illegal, this is a sin, you shouldn’t want this, you shouldn’t want this’._  But he pushes deeper, and Baekhyun’s moans climb higher, and the whispers all crumble, giving way instead to:  _‘You want this, you want this’,_  and then:  _‘You need this’_.

Chanyeol is gasping, body on fire with a forbidden rush. His rational mind is so far gone by now there’s no point in stopping.

Baekhyun is wailing, fisting the sheets and holding them for dear life as he’s jolted back against the bed. The headboard begins striking the wall, thudding rhythmically, but Chanyeol can’t bring himself to hold back.

“I—I’m…” he groans.

Baekhyun nods quickly, voice desperate.

“Me too,  _fuck_ , me too. Come inside me, Chanyeol.”

Those words manage to finally push him over the edge, and with a few more thrusts, he slams his hips up against Baekhyun’s thighs and comes.

The groan that leaves his throat is broken and raw, and he forces his eyes to stay open until Baekhyun comes too, spurting up across his own chest as waves of pleasure ripple through his body.

“…Gh—” Baekhyun eventually mumbles. “Mm—pull out.”

His voice is worn and uneven.

Chanyeol gently eases out and his come immediately dribbles out of Baekhyun and onto the bed. It’s filthy, but Chanyeol still feels a shock of interest run through his cock at the sight.

Baekhyun already looks half asleep so Chanyeol runs to the bathroom, washes his hands, and grabs a handful of toilet paper to clean them both off with.

He climbs into bed beside Baekhyun and expects the disgust to hit—the regret, the self-loathing—but it doesn’t. His adrenaline has dropped off drastically and they’re crossing from the realm of sex into affection; Chanyeol doesn’t want to want this.

“You know…” Baekhyun murmurs. “…Part of me doesn't even care if someone has been killing people. Minseok or… or Kyungsoo.”

He laughs quietly.

“God, what an awful thing to say. But…” He looks over at Chanyeol, eyelids heavy. “…I don't know the missing people. I mean of course I've met them, but there's no emotional attachment so… what's the harm if they've gone missing? This hotel is everything to me. It's my whole life and it won't be closed for as long as I'm breathing. And the people in it… They're family. I left my family in Korea and this is all I have left.”

Chanyeol hates that he can see the rationale behind that.

They don’t speak again, just lie beside one another until Baekhyun’s breathing evens out, at which point Chanyeol needs to escape.

He dresses hastily in just his shirt and slacks and heads downstairs. The lobby is still lit although nobody is standing behind the reception desk nor lounging near the television. He tries the door to the courtyard and finds it unlocked, so he takes a seat in one of the wicker chairs and lights a cigarette.

The encounter is repeating over and over in his mind. He hardly feels any regret at the moment but it will undoubtedly build over the next few hours until he’s sick with disgust.

He idly wonders what Baekhyun had prayed for forgiveness for this morning at church.

Chanyeol takes one drag after another, always letting the smoke sit in his lungs until they’re aching before letting it out.

He glances up at the night sky, at the moon. It’s full, looming ominously in the dark. His gaze descends slowly, over the hotel’s arched windows and red brick walls, and farther, into the garden and the windows hiding between—

Chanyeol stops.

Windows…

They're covered in years of grime and dust and practically obscured behind flowers, but… they're there.

When Baekhyun had shown him the archive room—as far back as the basement went—it had been windowless.

A chill works up his body.

Something isn’t right; on the blueprints, the archive took up the entire back half of the building—they must have a bookcase blocking off the entrance.

Chanyeol stands abruptly and walks inside, feeling too vulnerable out in the night. He extinguishes his cigarette in an ashtray on one of the restaurant tables and sneaks out into the lobby, heart pounding in his chest.

He checks behind the empty reception desk and lets his breath out slowly when he finds a set of keys.

He needs to get into that room. This is everything he’s been waiting for; all the answers are falling into place, everything he’d missed before.

Now that he’s thinking of it, that elevator he’d seen on the fourth floor must extent down to the basement—that hadn’t been in the archive room either.

His skin is crawling as he enters the basement. Only a few of the lights in the hall are still lit, swallowing the spaces between with shadows. He moves silently until just before the door, when he notices something from the corner of his eye.

“Oh, Chanyeol.”

Chanyeol stops abruptly. Kyungsoo steps out of the shadows near the waiting room.

“Why are you down here so late?”

Chanyeol's mouth goes dry and his heart leaps into his throat. The emptiness in his pocket burns—he’d forgotten his pistol.

He immediately calculates every other possible option.

Hand-to-hand combat: feasible; he is much larger than Kyungsoo and almost guaranteed a win, but lawfully questionable unless he is attacked.

Abscond: also feasible, although his car keys are in his room and going back up there would likely lead to him being trapped inside the hotel.

And finally, compliance: poor choice. Giving Kyungsoo the opportunity to draw Chanyeol into his element would be a mistake.

“…Are you feeling alright?” Kyungsoo asks hesitantly.

His eyes flick down to the keys in Chanyeol’s hand and darken.

Chanyeol tries to speak but nothing comes out.

Kyungsoo takes a step towards him and Chanyeol scurries back, preparing to run—and fight if need be—when a dull pain blooms at the base of his skull. It lasts for hardly a second before he’s falling, descending into total darkness.

 

The first thing Chanyeol processes after waking up is the blood caked in his hair and along the back of his neck—cold and dried and tugging on his skin.

The next thing he becomes aware of, after careful concentration, is a slow, sweet melody drifting from a record player somewhere in the far reaches of the room.

_“You are my destiny,_

_You share my reverie,_

_You are my happiness,_

_That’s what you are.”_

The song is familiar—Paul Anka. But… the voice isn't quite right. Too high, too lilting.

Chanyeol cracks one eyelid open followed shortly by the other. Everything is fuzzy, shadows dancing across his line of sight.

He tries to move his arms but they’re restrained behind his back, rope biting into his wrists; both legs are also tied to the legs of the chair.

His head is throbbing and he can’t think straight.

Chanyeol does a mental run through the layout of the hotel, momentarily struggling to pinpoints his location before realizing…

He’s behind the archive room.

_“You have my sweet caress,_

_You share my loneliness,_

_You are my dream come true,_

_That’s what you are.”_

His vision begins to sharpen and he takes a look around, careful not to turn his head too quickly.

Rather than the grimy, blood-smeared dungeons they show in the horror films, this room is sterile. It's the habitat of a medical professional. Several fluorescent lights are set in the ceiling but at the moment, all that lights the room is a single bulb on a wire.

Heavy, red velvet curtains are hanging from all four walls, giving the eerie sensation of being put on show.

The room is large, almost twice the size of the dining room and Chanyeol is embarrassed not to have realized it was here earlier.

In the far right corner is the elevator car he’s been wondering about and the great contraption that controls it—all metal cylinders and cables.

Beside that is a large oil drum for God-knows-what.

Directly to Chanyeol’s left is a table of medical instruments, and beyond that…

His heartbeat suddenly catches up with him, beating double time when it recognizes the situation. His head starts to scream,  _‘Bad! Bad! Danger! Danger!’,_  beating against his skull too powerfully to ignore.

“Morning, sleepyhead.”

Baekhyun walks toward him, briefly kneeling in front of the chair they’ve tied him to.

“Rise and shine.”

He’s wearing the same outfit he had discarded on Chanyeol’s floor earlier and his hair is a bit of a mess—Chanyeol is sure he doesn’t look much different. Kyungsoo is watching them casually from a chair in the corner, arms crossed.

The song ends and the record scratches to a halt.

When Baekhyun stands again, he walks around the back, too far for Chanyeol to follow.

“I’m sorry for hitting you,” he murmurs, running his finger through the dried blood on Chanyeol’s neck. “But you looked a little too enlightened for my liking. I didn’t want you running off and telling one of your friends all about our little set up. The police and I aren’t always the best of friends.”

Chanyeol is shocked into silence for a moment and he’s certain it shows. He knew?

“…What are you talking about?” He twists his head. “I’m a journalist—an author! I didn’t come to expose anything; I came for a story that would sell.”

It’s not the most courageous move to pull, but it’s the one that has the highest chance of saving his life.

Baekhyun clicks his tongue and wanders back into sight.

“Surely you don't think you're the only one who can tell a lie?”

He rifles around in his pocket before drawing something out and holding it up.

Chanyeol closes his eyes, his own stupidity rising like bile in his throat.

His badge, the seven pointed star. ‘Inspector S.F Police 2211’.

He doesn’t even need to ask where Baekhyun found it—he could’ve easily taken it at any point during their… encounter.

“Mhm,” Baekhyun hums, a low sultry sound in his throat.

He tosses the badge so that it skitters to a halt at Chanyeol’s feet.

“I have to admit, you had me questioning Kyungsoo's logic for a while. You seemed determined to overshare with me which led me away from thinking you were an investigative professional.”

Chanyeol flushes at the condescension.

“But then I realized it was because you’re rash. Too confident, too restless when it comes to cases you’re drawn to. And how could you resist this one? We’re  _your_  people.”

“My colleague knows I’m here,” Chanyeol warns, “If you kill me, he’ll just come looking, and he’ll bring back-up.”

Baekhyun frowns, stopping a second to think.

“…You’re saying this like Kyungsoo and I are the only ones in the hotel capable of killing.”

Chanyeol’s blood runs cold.  _There are others?_  

“Who?” Chanyeol asks.

Baekhyun shrugs and turns away from Chanyeol, casually pacing to the back of the room.

“Does it matter?”

“You’re lying,” Chanyeol instantly accuses.

Baekhyun chuckles.

“Remember what I said about being rash? It got you into trouble,” Baekhyun gestures at him, restrained in a chair, “and it’ll get your friends into trouble too. So you can accuse me of whatever you’d like, but it won’t make a difference.”

He speaks with such authority and conviction—it’s like he’s an entirely different person than the one Chanyeol met four days ago.

“And besides,” he continues, sounding as if he’s just recognized something, “this is way out of your jurisdiction. Your captain doesn’t even know you’re here, does he?”

Baekhyun crouches so Chanyeol doesn’t have to look up at him, but it doesn’t make eye contact any easier to hold. Baekhyun is dropping bomb after bomb on him and he’s buried in near infinite rubble by now; he can’t dig himself out of this one.

Chanyeol begins to pull at his bonds, trying to slip one hand out from between the rope.

“Why are you doing this?” he growls.

Baekhyun looks over at Kyungsoo with an odd grin.

“What do you mean, ‘why’?” He turns back to Chanyeol.

“You know what I fucking mean,” he spits and Baekhyun laughs.

“Goodness me, that foul mouth.”

Chanyeol nearly retorts that Baekhyun had been cursing his head off earlier, but realizes that’s exactly what he wants to hear.

“I mean what reason do you have for killing all those people? Revenge? Did they scorn you? Refuse to sleep with you?”

Baekhyun’s mouth opens in understanding.

“Ah.” He stands. “Call it a… genetic predisposition.”

“To murder?” Chanyeol spits.

It would have been a joke under any other circumstances.

Baekhyun nods earnestly.

“My grandfather built this hotel in 1907 for the purpose of killing.”

Chanyeol’s breath catches in his throat. Grandfather?

“My mother was born in this very building, and so was I. It’s our legacy.”

As that piece of the puzzle clicks into the place, Chanyeol can finally see the whole picture.

“…You’re sick,” Chanyeol whispers, “You’re insane.”

Baekhyun walks nearer to Kyungsoo.

“I’m not sick,” he murmurs, “I was born with the devil inside me. That’s what my grandfather used to say—it’s a demon that courses through our blood.”

Chanyeol is speechless, panic now flooding into his lungs with every breath and squeezing at his heart.

“You never fought in the war,” he spits, “You didn’t leave your family in Korea.”

Baekhyun nods.

“Then… What about your—”

“War wound?” Baekhyun finishes his question. “When I was a boy, my grandfather taught me to do what he did. He didn’t realize the victim had a pistol under his pillow, and he shot me. Abysmal aim,” Baekhyun mutters, unconsciously rubbing at the scar on his arm. “So I told myself I would never kill anyone in their own element. I went and found myself a sweet little treat with a penchant for slicing flesh,” Baekhyun tickles the underside of Kyungsoo's chin, “and the rest is history.”

 He presses a kiss to Kyungsoo’s lips and Chanyeol holds back a gasp. Their kiss deepens to the point that Baekhyun is moaning, pulling Kyungsoo up from his chair as his hands roam down the curve of Kyungsoo’s back.

“Mm, stop,” Kyungsoo murmurs, pulling back from the kiss.

Baekhyun grins and presses their foreheads together.

“Later,” he replies.

Chanyeol absolutely despises his body for reacting the way it is.

“How many people have you killed?” Chanyeol asks suddenly, voice breaking.

Baekhyun drops his arms and looks towards him, then back at Kyungsoo.

“Remind me, sugar.”

Without hesitation, Kyungsoo mutters, “Thirty-six.”

Chanyeol feels nauseous.

“How did you…”

How did they get away with that many murders? In this day and age, how is that possible?

“Don't overthink it, Chanyeol. The answer is right before your eyes, and it has been every single day since you were born onto this horrific continent, just like I was.”

Baekhyun kneels on the ground in front of him.

“White people couldn't care less what we do as long as it doesn't affect them.”

He speaks those words in Korean and they nearly knock the air from Chanyeol's lungs.

“I'm sure you understand that just as well as me.”

Of course he does. He’d spent his entire life as an outcast until he’d met Jongdae. Even the inspector at the local precinct had brushed the deaths and disappearances off as out of his control.

“My grandfather…” Baekhyun says, “…he thought of the White men as something to be afraid of, as something powerful rather than something to be taken advantage of. He was ashamed to be invisible in the eyes of the White men when he should have relished the anonymity.”

Baekhyun stands and Chanyeol notices his lip twitch back in disgust.

“He was a fool,” he mutters, “He didn’t even deserve the life he had; I should’ve killed him sooner.”

Chanyeol’s stomach drops.

“You—you killed your own grandfather?”

Baekhyun doesn’t bother answering; he’s already said as much.

“I’m surprised my mother bothered visiting his grave. She never did share our interests, and left the hotel as soon as he died.”

Chanyeol’s fear begins to change. He feels anger prickle underneath his skin, the need for justice so clear it’s infuriating, and a suddenly push to seek revenge rises up in him—revenge for all thirty-six lost lives, as well as the ones that undoubtedly came before.

“Fuck you,” Chanyeol spits and Baekhyun takes a step forward.

“If I’m remembering correctly, you already have,” he coos.

Rage bubbles in Chanyeol’s chest, threatening to burst with each word Baekhyun says.

“Jongdae’s going to kill you both,” he hisses.

Baekhyun looks back at Kyungsoo.

“Ooh,  _Jongdae_.”

Chanyeol’s heart stops. That was entirely the wrong thing to say. He’d lost his temper and let that name slip, the  _one name_  he shouldn’t have said.

Baekhyun turns back to him and smiles—it’s the same wholesome expression that had drawn Chanyeol in in the first place.

“We’ll be anticipating his arrival. Think I could get him into bed?”

“Stop!” Chanyeol shouts, “Shut up!”

He suddenly realizes what the heavy curtains are for—sound insulation. No matter how loudly he screams, there’s cement and a thick layer of velvet blocking the sound from outside ears.

His bindings aren’t budging; in fact the more he moves the tighter they feel, rubbing his wrists raw.

Like a light, Chanyeol’s hope is growing dimmer and dimmer. Getting angry isn’t going to get him anywhere, it’ll just be giving Baekhyun what he wants—entertainment.

Chanyeol takes a few slow breaths and relaxes his shoulders. He looks up at Baekhyun.

“Why did you leave some bodies to be found and not others?”

He needs to stall for as long as possible, and when he gets out of here he’ll need every detail he can squeeze from them. Pride is a criminal’s greatest downfall.

Baekhyun makes a face.

“The ones with families were trouble; if they had gone missing, there would’ve been chaos. But dead? And by natural causes?”

Chanyeol understands—they needed closure. Knowing their loved ones died from natural causes like a heart attack would send them skipping past the stage of denial and straight into grieving.

“But… They had already checked-out; you showed me the book,” Chanyeol says.

Baekhyun clears his throat and puts on his most well-mannered receptionist voice.

“‘Oh my, I’m afraid I’d forgotten—Dr. Do asked me to send you down for one last check-up before we let you go. We wouldn’t want anything to happen to you after you leave.’”

A point that had evaded Chanyeol until now finally clicks into place; almost all the victims had underlying health conditions. The offer of a final check-up and that’s that.

This isn’t just murder, Chanyeol realizes, it’s a routine. They have this planned so efficiently, he wouldn’t doubt that there exists a script to use with every guest.

“And the victims…” Chanyeol says, “Were they all… like you?”

Baekhyun’s eyebrows shoot up and he presses a hand to his chest almost defensively.

“Like—like  _me?_ ”

He nearly laughs.

He takes a step toward Chanyeol and lowers onto his knees, batting his eyelashes. The twang of embarrassment is immediate and visceral, and Chanyeol has to resist breaking eye contact when his cheeks heat up.

Baekhyun slides both hands up Chanyeol’s thighs and opens his mouth, “Homosexuals, you mean?”

Chanyeol flinches; it’s such a clinical term and makes him feel even more ashamed.

“…No, not all of them.” He smirks. “I only fucked the ones who wanted it.”

Baekhyun squeezes his thighs and winks before straightening up.

“Personally, I wouldn’t complain about having the greatest fuck of my life right before I died, but to each his own.”

His arrogance is infuriating, and only more so because the sex  _was_ incredible.

Chanyeol’s wrists are burning with the friction from the rope but they’re also growing slick with sweat where they’re pressed together, giving him a better chance to slide out. If he can get his hands out, he just needs to break the chair and incapacitate Baekhyun and Kyungsoo, both of whom he’s much larger than.

Chanyeol keeps the questions coming, moving on to the one question that’s been burning in his mind and haunting him all week.

“…How did you do it?”

Baekhyun’s cocky smile disappears.

“My grandfather…” he begins, “…craved blood. He would come back to our room with blood on his clothes and armfuls of bloodstained bedsheets.”

Chanyeol’s stomach churns.

“It was vile, really.”

Baekhyun thrusts a thumb over his shoulder to where Kyungsoo has sat back down.

“Kyungsoo enjoys it as well, but he’s far more talented with a knife. My grandfather left a mess everywhere he went; it’s a miracle he was never caught and hanged. Anyway, it wasn’t until, oh… 1948, I think, that he decided he needed a separate room for killing.”

Baekhyun sweeps an arm out, gesturing to the room they’re in.

“So here we are.”

That explains why the blueprints were incorrect—the basement was recently renovated.

“For me, the desire is different,” Baekhyun hums. “I don’t crave blood… I just need to see the light leaving their eyes.”

His words bring back several vivid memories for Chanyeol. Looking into dying eyes… it’s one of the most heart-wrenching experiences he’s ever had to go through.

Baekhyun wanders over to the instrument table beside him and picks up a little bottle that Chanyeol had failed to notice before.

“Kyungsoo found me this.”

He holds the bottle up to the light. It’s a clear liquid.

“…Poison?” Chanyeol guesses.

Baekhyun looks straight at him and murmurs, “Better.”

“Suxamethonium chloride,” Kyungsoo says, “is a medical paralytic.” 

 _This is used in hospitals?_  

“Within one minute of injection, it begins to cause muscle paralysis.”

Chanyeol doesn’t understand.

“So… It puts you to sleep?”

Kyungsoo tilts his head.

“When combined with a sedative, yes. On its own, though, it travels through the body and seizes control of every muscle, including the lungs, while you remain awake.”

Chanyeol stops breathing. That’s the most horrific thing he’s ever heard; it’s like drowning out of water.

Baekhyun places the drug down again, grinning.

“Incredible, isn’t it? And it’s untraceable post mortem.”

Chanyeol’s heart feels like it’s about to beat out of his chest and he’s sure the pounding is audible in the otherwise silent room.

Baekhyun reaches into Chanyeol’s pocket and grabs his pack of cigarettes and lighter. He lights one and Chanyeol assumes he’s going to smoke it. Instead, he tosses the lighter onto the table with a clang and taps Chanyeol's chin. Baekhyun opens his own mouth slightly as an example, as if he were spoon feeding a child.

When Chanyeol clamps his mouth shut tighter than it was before, Baekhyun pouts.

“Don't want it? You might as well.”

Chanyeol looks down at the cigarette, one end smouldering while thin wisps of smoke escape. He breathes it in, body instantly aching for it. Hesitantly, he opens his mouth, allowing Baekhyun to place the end between his lips. Chanyeol takes a long drag, closing his eyes.

“Mm… It's good, isn't it?” Baekhyun murmurs.

Chanyeol blows the smoke out while carefully keeping the cigarette in place. Baekhyun kneels down in front of him and rests his hands on Chanyeol’s knees.

“That high you're getting…” he drops to a whisper, “…that's how I feel when I kill people. Tenfold.”

Chanyeol immediately feels his stomach churn again, the nicotine doing nothing to calm his nerves. He spits the cigarette out at Baekhyun and it bounces off his shoulder and tumbles to the floor.

Baekhyun glances down, wiping the ash from his shirt and smiling up at Chanyeol.

“So feisty. It’s refreshing. Most of them just cry or try to reason with me, but you’re really pushing your luck.” Baekhyun chuckles. “I love it.”

Chanyeol nearly has one hand free so he pushes past the panic rising in his throat and keeps asking.

“What about the bodies? Where did you put them?”

Baekhyun’s smile slowly drops, and he narrows his eyes.

“You can ask all the questions you’d like; you’re only prolonging your own psychological torture.”

He takes a few leisurely steps backwards until he reaches the oil drum near the elevator and gives it a tap.

“Caustic soda. Dissolves flesh like a charm, and leaves the bones to be ground up and fed to our flowers.”

The imagery makes Chanyeol’s head spin and he needs to take a few deep breaths to settle the dizziness.

Baekhyun strides across the room, sits himself on Kyungsoo’s lap, and throws an arm around his shoulders.

“W-what about the fire on the fourth floor?”

A quiet laugh bubbles from Baekhyun’s chest.

“I don’t think you want to know about that one.”

“I do,” Chanyeol replies immediately; he’s so close he can already taste freedom.

Baekhyun quirks his head.

“…Alright. I broke my grandfather’s knees and set him on fire.”

Chanyeol’s stomach turns over and he has to pause his movements for a moment. That isn’t what he’d been expecting.

“I called the fire department before it could spread over the whole floor and told them my ‘poor grandfather had been cooking upstairs!’” He puts on a heavy Korean accent and Chanyeol squeezes his eyes shut.

How can any human being think like this?

“…If you were planning to kill me since I arrived, why did you wait so long? Why not take me out before I had a chance to communicate with anyone from my precinct?”

Baekhyun shrugs one shoulder and answers simply.

“Intrigue.”

Chanyeol frowns.

“What—”

“I don’t kill for the sake of killing,” Baekhyun interrupts, then pauses. “Well…  _I do,_ but… What’s the point of killing someone you know nothing about? I need an emotional connection or it’s no fun at all.”

Chanyeol nearly gags at the word ‘fun’ being used to describe homicide.

Baekhyun suddenly hops off of Kyungsoo’s lap.

“Oh!” His face lights up as if he’s just remembered something. “I almost forgot the best part. You remember your pleurisy?”

Chanyeol looks up at him, baffled as to what this has to do with the present situation.

“…Yes, I…wha—?”

“It wasn’t pleurisy.”

Baekhyun’s grin is far too off-putting for Chanyeol to ignore.

“It was a pleural effusion.” Kyungsoo murmurs from his chair.

His eye contact is unsettling.

“What the Hell does this have to do—?”

“Caused by advanced lung cancer.”

At that, Chanyeol freezes.

_…Lung cancer? From…smoking?_

_That’s impossible; everybody smokes and cancer is so rare…_

Within seconds, everything begins to feel small and far away. The fabric of his pants scratching against his leg feels both overwhelming and nonexistent. The dim lighting seems both blinding and not bright enough. If he weren’t sitting down he’d probably have collapsed by now.

Kyungsoo continues.

“I thought at first it was in its early stages, but you’re slightly jaundiced in the eyes so I suspect the cancer has metastasized to your liver as well. I expect you would have had only an additional six or seven months to live.”

Chanyeol feels as if he’s outside of his own body, looking down.

“Right?” Baekhyun laughs and the sound is harsh in Chanyeol’s ears. “So what’s the point?”

Chanyeol is growing angry again. Every breath he draws fills him with adrenaline and it’s reaching a peak. Just as the palm of his right hand slips past the ring of rope, he realizes this is it—if he doesn’t act now, he’s dead.

“You’re going to die anyway,” Baekhyun sighs, “Why not make it here with me?”

With a snarl, Chanyeol tugs his hand free and the ropes slip off the other, falling in a bundle to the floor.

Baekhyun’s eyes widen but before he can step away Chanyeol throws a punch, and hears a sickening crack on impact. Baekhyun staggers back, holding his nose.

He flips the table of instruments next, content when the drug smashes against the concrete.

Kyungsoo doesn’t make a move, not even standing from his chair.

The knots around Chanyeol’s ankles are too tight to undo, so he grabs the underside of the chair and tilts forward onto his feet before throwing himself backwards. He goes down on an angle and the chair legs snap off, wood splintering beneath him. Chanyeol climbs to his feet and immediately pulls back the curtain to find the exit.

“It’s locked,” Kyungsoo murmurs.

Chanyeol is running on pure adrenaline and begins kicking the door, but it doesn’t even budge. He spins around and looks over to where Baekhyun is crouching against the wall, blood steadily dripping to the floor. He’s shaking, and Chanyeol can’t tell whether it’s from anger or fear until Baekhyun opens his mouth and begins laughing. It’s quiet—delicate at first—but quickly grows manic.

Before he can run at Baekhyun and knock him unconscious, he’s interrupted.

“I have the key.”

Chanyeol swings his gaze up to Kyungsoo, still seated, and charges, blood hot in his veins.

Kyungsoo stands just as Chanyeol pulls his arm back to strike and…

…Everything happens so quickly.

Chanyeol’s fist never makes contact and the next thing he knows, the air is being pushed from his lungs. A blow to the back of one knee sends him stumbling, low enough for Kyungsoo to drag him into a choke hold.

Chanyeol flings his arms out wildly, trying to land a strike to no avail.

Kyungsoo presses his thumb into a spot just below Chanyeol’s skull and he screams, unthinkable pain blooming through his head, turning his vision red. It feels as if his head is about to burst open and there’s nothing he can do about it. Kyungsoo pushes harder and Chanyeol goes weak, voice giving out as he collapses on the floor.

He can’t move, only watching as Kyungsoo retrieves rope from the splintered chair and ties his wrists up once more.

Flecks of black dance across his vision and he closes his eyes for a few moments to quiet the ringing in his ears.

From upside down, he sees Baekhyun rise to his feet, blood soaking the front of his shirt.

“Ha! What did I say? Feisty.” He wipes a hand under his nose, smearing blood across his cheek. “You have one hell of a right hook,” he adds with a grin.

He takes a seat directly to Chanyeol’s right so he has a clear view of his face. His lips and chin are shining with blood but he doesn’t seem to mind, instead focusing on Chanyeol.

When Kyungsoo kneels to his left, his eyes are instantly drawn to the long glass syringe he’s holding.

Chanyeol’s heart leaps back into his throat; he must have retrieved more of the drug from his office. He kicks weakly, putting up as much of a fight as his body can handle before he just gives up.

“P-please don’t,” he croaks.

“Aw,” Baekhyun clicks his tongue. “Don’t beg; you’re better than that.”

Chanyeol feels the needle pierce his skin, the cool rush of liquid through his veins.

At first, there’s nothing. A tear runs down the side of his face, stinging the skin it touches.

His eyes begin twitching then his eyelids droop, one after the other. His hands go numb, then his arms, and when he tries to lift them they won’t budge, held down by some invisible weight.

He’s choking on panic but his tongue won’t move. He feels the tension releasing in his legs and then he can’t feel them at all.

His head lolls to the right and although his body is telling him to fall unconscious, he’s never felt more alert.

This is what Hell is like, he thinks.

Baekhyun is watching him with stars in his eyes, pressing a palm to Chanyeol’s cheek.

“I can see the scream in your eyes,” he murmurs, smiling softly.

Chanyeol’s breaths are growing shorter and weaker until finally his lungs deflate and never re-inflate. He can’t breathe no matter how hard he tries.

His vision is starting to go black around the edges with his lack of oxygen and all he can think about is air—just one breath.

Baekhyun is speaking again but he can’t hear it.

Sound is fading by the second and soon everything is silent.

With one final glimpse at Baekhyun’s grinning face, he falls into darkness.

 

“Chanyeol!”

A voice rings through the silence like a golden bell.

_Jongdae._

He’s found him, he’s here to save him.

Jongdae pulls Chanyeol into his arms and holds him tight, unmoving.

_Why are you just standing here? We need to go!_

The words won’t leave Chanyeol’s throat.

Jongdae sobs quietly into his shoulder and Chanyeol pauses.

_Why are you crying?_

Jongdae takes in a shuddering breath and whispers, “Welcome home.”


	6. Chapter 6

December 30th, 1957  
Los Angeles, California

“Sorry about this,” Baekhyun whispers, hand over the receiver as it continues to ring out.

The young woman is biting at her nails—it seems more a bad habit than a sign of nerves.

“Don't be,” she dismisses, “I should have told him I was coming to accompany him home rather than trying to surprise him; it appears I don't have impeccable foresight.”

She’s draped in jewels and wrapped in furs—a rich father.

Baekhyun sighs and hangs the telephone back in its cradle.

“I’m afraid the number Mr. Seo left isn’t connecting. If it's alright with you, I'll pop down to the office for a tick and ask the doctor if he's met with him today. I do believe he's been visiting Dr. Do for an asthma attack he had a few days prior and it's quite possible a check-up was the order of the day.”

She simply nods, turning away from the counter.

Baekhyun cocks an eyebrow at her, disdain plain on his face as he rounds the corner to the staircase. He takes the steps down two at a time, knowing full well that if Kyungsoo hasn't injected him yet, he'd damn well better be preparing to. Johnny had checked-out hardly twenty minutes ago but he wasn’t about to tell his fiancée that.

He shoves open the archive room door, mood growing more sour by the second. He hastily knocks on the wall, alerting Kyungsoo to his presence before heaving the shelf aside and kicking open the unlocked door.

The scene he intrudes on is almost picturesque.

Johnny is on the floor, one arm pinned underneath himself while the other curves toward his neck—gnarled fingers spasming, reaching for his throat. His eyes are bulging, although one lid has begun to droop, and his mouth is wide open in a silent scream.

“Oh my God,” Baekhyun gasps, rushing to kneel beside him.

He presses both hands to Johnny’s chest, ignoring Kyungsoo's hissed, “Careful!”

The muscles around his rib cage are contracting weakly and his heart is beating abnormally, slowing with each passing second. It steals Baekhyun’s breath, giving way to a few fleeting seconds of euphoria.

His eyes are glazed with tears but the paralysis is keeping him from blinking.

Baekhyun snaps out of his trance and looks over as Kyungsoo.

“We need to get him up. Now.” He nods at the elevator.

Kyungsoo frowns, quickly setting down the syringe before saying, “Baekhyun… he's not even dead y—”

“ _Now,_ ” Baekhyun snarls, “His rich fiancée is in the lobby; if she doesn't find a body, we’re in for one hell of a court case.”

A weak gurgle escapes Johnny's lips at the mention of his fiancée. Baekhyun eyes turn soft for a moment.

“Oh, my sweet. She never deserved you.”

A few more seconds and he’s gone, a tear of release slipping down his cheek and sending Baekhyun’s heart skipping in his chest.

He glances up.

“You’re certain there’s no trace left in the body?” he asks Kyungsoo.

“Succinylcholine metabolizes within minutes, so unless the autopsy occurs—”

“I don’t need the specifics, babe, just ‘yes’ or ‘no’.”

“Yes, I’m certain.”

Baekhyun nods. He hooks his arms under Johnny’s and drags the body into the open elevator car, grunting with exertion. He shoves the legs inside and gestures for Kyungsoo to join him.

He jabs the third floor button with his thumb and the elevator groans to life. They don’t bother closing the gate seeing as they’ll be coming back down in a minute or two. They pass up through their shared bedroom and farther, onto the third floor.

Kyungsoo slides the back gate open and steps into the narrow hall, carefully navigating through the pitch dark and tapping every so often on the wall.

Baekhyun drums his fingers against his leg, idly considering what he’ll have for dinner.

When Kyungsoo finds the sweet spot he shoves the door open and climbs through, sliding the clothes hangers aside with a screech.

He opens the closet door and daylight pours through, giving Baekhyun enough light to navigate the body through the hall, the closet, and into the room. Kyungsoo has already re-placed his luggage, giving the room a suitably lived-in feel.

“Why am I always the one doing the heavy lifting?” Baekhyun grumbles.

Johnny is quite tall and it takes several seconds just to get a solid enough grip around his back and under his legs.

“Because you’re the one who chooses who to kill,” Kyungsoo retorts under his breath. “You could’ve decided to kill children. Forty pounds is less of a strain on the back.”

Baekhyun clicks his tongue. “I’m not heartless.”

He hefts the body up onto the single bed and brushes his hands off on his pants.

Kyungsoo arranges his limbs into a suitable position then briefly checks his pulse, nodding when he judges him suitably deceased.

They both retreat into the elevator, and send it shuddering back into the basement. Before it even reaches the ground, Baekhyun jumps out and darts from the room, skipping up the stairs.

He tucks a stray strand of hair back, smoothing his hand over it before opening the door and re-entering the lobby.

The fiancée has her eyes on the television. Baekhyun immediately recognizes the film—‘Vertigo’, with James Stewart.

“Miss,” he says to get her attention.

She turns back around, clutching her purse in both hands.

“I’m afraid our doctor hasn’t seen Mr. Seo since yesterday evening,” Baekhyun explains.

She sighs, a show of exasperation.

“If you’d like, I can take you up to his room. I’m afraid if he isn’t there you’ll simply need to wait in the lobby.”

She nods curtly. “Yes, that would be wonderful.”

Baekhyun leads her up the first set of stairs, then the second. His heart is pounding but it’s a welcome reaction.

Leaving the body intact is always far riskier than disposing of it, but with an untraceable chemical which is disappearing from the body as they walk, there’s no way anything can be proven. All that aside, the horrified reactions almost make the risks worthwhile all on their own.

He snakes through the hallway until they reach the right door. Baekhyun raps twice against it.

“Mr. Seo, your fiancée is here to see you.”

They wait, both silent.

“Mr. Seo?” he tries again, counting out an appropriate amount of time before he simply unlocks the door, stomach twisted in anticipation.

The woman peeks inside then laughs faintly.

“Johnny.”

She steps inside and Baekhyun watches from the doorway.

“Johnny, wake up… Johnny?”

He soaks up the seconds of silence before the blood-curdling scream.

 

February 3rd, 1958

Los Angeles, California

 

“Fuck, you know how I like it,” Baekhyun gasps, tossing his head back.

He’s straddling Kyungsoo’s lap on the edge of their bed and Kyungsoo has one hand on Baekhyun’s hip and one around his throat, squeezing that spot just under his jaw while Baekhyun bounces on his cock.

Colour dances behind his eyes every time he blinks.

He likes to think this is how his victims feel before they die—although maybe not quite so aroused.

Baekhyun drags his nails up Kyungsoo’s back, struggling to breathe, and the pressure within him is growing uncontrollable.

His cock is red and aching, having gone untouched since they had begun.

He slaps Kyungsoo’s hand away and sucks in a few breaths.

“Lie down, baby.”

Baekhyun pushes him back into the bed with hands braced on his shoulders. Kyungsoo groans in appreciation of the new position and starts thrusting up to meet Baekhyun half way.

“Ah!  _Fuck_  yes. Keep going like that,” Baekhyun whines, voice raw.

He grabs Kyungsoo’s hand and places it over his throat again, cock twitching when he begins to squeeze.

“So close,” he gasps.

Baekhyun grinds back on Kyungsoo, delirious with pleasure.

He pushes harder, deeper, faster—chasing his orgasm without laying a hand on himself.

His moans grow fainter and fainter as Kyungsoo chokes him until suddenly the tension is too much and he snaps.

With a scream stuck in his throat, he digs his nails into Kyungsoo’s arms and comes.

 

May 1st, 1932

Los Angeles, California

 

“Sungmi!” Baekhyun starts when his mother stands up straight.

“What?” she calls back, grip around Baekhyun's hand tightening.

His grandfather strides into their room, his perpetually stern expression even more poisonous than usual.

“I need to speak with you.”

His mother sighs and scoops Baekhyun into her arms.

“Put the boy down.”

“No.”

He sighs, jaw tight.

“We need to discuss private matters.”

“He’s three years old,” she replies.

She sits back on her bed and begins bouncing Baekhyun on her knee.

His grandfather closes the door and comes to stand across from them, pushing his glasses sternly up his nose.

“…Do you remember the young woman? From a fortnight ago?”

She nods.

“Her husband has just checked in.” His voice becomes grim.

His mother stops bouncing him, but doesn’t say anything.

“We need to discuss whether it’s best to…”

He looks down at Baekhyun and doesn’t finish his sentence.

His mother laughs quietly.

“You’re being ridiculous,” she says.

He crosses his arms.

“Children are like mockingbirds, repeating whatever you say without a thought for the consequences; you need to be careful.”

Baekhyun struggles against his mother’s hold until she releases him, still engaged in the conversation. He wanders away from the two, towards the elevator in the corner.

“At any cost,” his grandfather mutters, “I’ll need you to get close to him—”

Baekhyun had stopped listening after he realized they aren’t talking about anything fun. He hooks his fingers in the metal grates and jumps, trying to climb the elevator’s cage. When that fails, he tries to fit his toes into the grate too.

A smack echoes throughout the room and Baekhyun looks over with wide eyes. His mother is holding her cheek and his grandfather is standing over her with a scowl.

Baekhyun bursts into tears and his mother’s expression instantly softens as she runs to him and scoops him into her arms. She holds his cheek and hugs him close, urging his tears into her dress.

She hushes him briefly before beginning to sing.

_“Happy days are here again…_

_The skies above are clear again…_

_Let us sing a song of cheer again,_

_Happy days are here again.”_

 

September 19th, 1958

Los Angeles, California

 

When Minseok enters the lobby, he’s dressed in his casual wear.

“Going somewhere?” Baekhyun asks as he passes.

Minseok rarely leaves the hotel except for the odd shopping session, and of course, to visit the den.

Minseok’s lips twitch into an almost-smile.

“Nowhere at all,” he replies.

Baekhyun hums in mock contemplation.

“Maybe you should take Yixing along with you; I’m sure he knows a thing or two about poppies.”

Minseok clicks his tongue at the sarcasm.

“Poor boy would go into cardiac arrest the second he saw a naked woman.”

Baekhyun laughs. “I think a naked woman would do him good.”

Minseok grins, that unique, gummy smile of his.

“Anyway,” Baekhyun continues, “have you seen Sehun? He’s on a break and I need to discuss next week’s delivery.”

Minseok pouts in contemplation.

“You’ve already checked the kitchen?”

Baekhyun makes a face.

“Why would he be in the kitchen during his break? He already spends the whole day in there.”

Minseok shrugs and gives him a look that says ‘you really think anything that boy does makes sense?’

…It’s a fair point.

Baekhyun heads toward the restaurant which is closed for the next hour until lunch. He unlocks the entrance and swings the door to the kitchen open before pausing with a heavy sigh.

Jongin is on his back, clinging to the edge of the metal preparation table while Sehun pounds into him. The sound of skin slapping is almost obnoxiously loud.

“For God’s sake,” Baekhyun says, letting the door swing shut.

The both of them jolt so suddenly that Jongin nearly falls off the table trying to cover himself.

Baekhyun tosses his hands up.

“You cook here! Why don’t you fuck up in your room?”

Sehun disregards him and starts thrusting back into Jongin, who squeaks and turns beet red, trying to squirm away and cover his erection with his shirt.

“Sehun!” he hisses, voice cracking in embarrassment.

“What?” Sehun replies, grunting. “He likes it.”

Baekhyun leans back against the wall and crosses his arms.

“He’s right, I do. But I’d like it a whole lot more if it were somewhere  _other than the kitchen._ ” He begins tapping his foot. “So either come, or move it upstairs.”

“I’ll take the first option,” Sehun says immediately.

He begins pumping faster and Jongin can’t bite back his moan.

It only takes a few moments before Sehun is hunching over, quivering with his orgasm. Jongin gasps and Baekhyun can practically feel the come emptying into him.

Sehun grabs Jongin’s cock and starts pumping it, tearing a moan from his throat. He lets go of his shirt and grabs the counter either side of him, wrapping his legs around Sehun’s hips.

Baekhyun briefly appreciates the toned muscle of his legs and up his chest. It leads up to a defined flush across his face and Baekhyun nearly coos at how precious he is.

After a minute or so, Jongin comes across his chest, breathing heavily as he rides out his orgasm.

Baekhyun gives them a few moments before saying, “Sehun, come talk to me about the deliveries after you’ve cleaned everything thoroughly. And next time, inform me of your sexual antics so I can provide you with a plastic sheet.”

Baekhyun grabs a grape from the bowl on the counter and pops it into his mouth, strolling out of the kitchen.

 

April 15th, 1958

Los Angeles, California

 

Baekhyun holds the syringe tenderly in both hands, pressing the plunger enough for the liquid to dribble from the needle.

“What are you doing to me?” Taeyong whimpers, tears already slipping down his cheeks.

His bottom lip begins quivering and Baekhyun cradles his face with one hand, leaning in closer.

He plasters his warmest, most dazzling smile on his face and murmurs, “I’m going to kill you, sugar.”

He’s never done this without Kyungsoo before, but he’s watched him nearly every time and is absolutely dying to try it out himself.

“Why me?” he whispers, voice breaking.

He looks up at the ceiling and closes his eyes. Baekhyun isn’t sure if he’s praying or simply searching for answers up there.

He traces a finger along Taeyong’s jaw.

“So beautiful,” Baekhyun murmurs, “I’ve heard that when a star dies, its brilliance outshines everything nearby… I’m sure you’ll be the same.”

A quiet sob bubbles from his chest and he refuses to make eye contact.

Baekhyun places the syringe down on the table and rolls Taeyong’s sleeve up past his elbow. He’s sniffling and Baekhyun can see his chest rising and falling rapidly and he aches for the moment when his lungs will stop altogether.

He holds the syringe exactly how Kyungsoo does, relishing in the foreign feeling. He places the end of the needle against his arm, just below the ditch of his elbow.

“No,” Taeyong begs, voice rising as he tries to pull his arm away. “No! Don’t, please!”

Baekhyun pushes the needle in and Taeyong cries—the primal sound of a wounded animal.

With intense focus, he slowly drives in the plunger and watches the liquid drain out into his bloodstream before pulling the needle out.

Taeyong is openly sobbing now, tears streaking his cheeks and running down his neck.

Baekhyun grabs his knife off the instrument table and slices first the ropes binding Taeyong’s ankles, then the ones binding his wrists—he adores the way they collapse.

Taeyong looks down at him, eyes wide with confusion and terror, and immediately makes for the door. It’s locked, of course, so Baekhyun just watches him scrabble, waiting for the drug to kick in.

The longer Taeyong goes with no progress, the louder his sobs become.

After about a minute, he’s still moving just as agilely, and Baekhyun’s anticipation begins to fizzle out, replaced by confusion, then frustration.

There’s a loud clang and Taeyong jumps and scrambles away from the door.

Kyungsoo pushes it open and looks down at Taeyong, over at the syringe, and finally up to Baekhyun.

He closes and locks the door quietly, and walks toward Taeyong, grabbing his arm before he can run. He holds his face roughly with one hand, studying his eyes, then looking at Baekhyun.

“What were you thinking?” he mutters, expression grim. “You injected it intramuscularly.” He releases Taeyong. “It can take up to three times as long to take effect and—”

“I-I…” Taeyong whimpers from the other side of the room. “I can’t…”

He suddenly collapses on the floor and Baekhyun pushes past Kyungsoo to crouch at his side.

“Yes,” Baekhyun whispers, “I did it. _Yes._ ”

Taeyong’s eyelids have drooped so he reaches over and pushes them back up.

One arm is shaking while the drug takes control of it, and finally those quick, nervous breaths grow slower and slower, coming to an eventual halt.

He looks into Taeyong’s eyes just as the terror gives way to emptiness and smiles, murmuring, “Like a star.”

 

October 12th, 1958

Los Angeles, California

 

Baekhyun wraps his arms around Kyungsoo’s shoulders.

“How long do you think he’ll be out for?”

Chanyeol’s head is hanging, chin to his chest and collar soaked with blood. It had only taken a few minutes to drag him in and tie him up and now they’re stuck in here until he wakes.

Kyungsoo tilts his head.

“You hit him rather hard, he’s probably concussed. I’d say another twenty minutes at most.”

Baekhyun slides his hands down Kyungsoo’s chest and slips one hand into his pants.

“That’s enough time for some fun. What do you say?”

Kyungsoo turns his head and murmurs, “Is that what you want the poor man to wake up to? He’ll be traumatized.”

Baekhyun spins Kyungsoo around and nips at his lip with a smirk.

“Not if we’re fast enough.”

He grabs Kyungsoo’s cock inside his pants and starts stroking him, receiving no sign of objection.

“Besides, he told me he likes when I put on a show.”

The corner of Kyungsoo’s mouth quirks up and Baekhyun tugs him back against the wall, shoving the curtain aside so he’s up against plain brick.

“Wipe that smirk off your face and get inside me.”

Kyungsoo’s expression simply grows more amused.

“Patience is a virtue,” he murmurs.

Baekhyun laughs and replies, “Not to me.”

He pulls Kyungsoo into a rushed kiss, sliding his hand along his half-hard cock. Kyungsoo unbuttons his pants, letting them slide to the floor before sliding one hand up Baekhyun’s shirt.

Baekhyun slaps his hand away and murmurs, “None of that foreplay junk, baby.”

He tugs his pants down with one hand.

“I’m already ready for you.”

He shakes one foot free and wraps his leg around Kyungsoo’s hip. He lines Kyungsoo’s cock up and it slides in easily with all the Vaseline and come that Chanyeol had slicked him with less than an hour ago.

“ _Yes, fuck,_  that’s what I need.”

Baekhyun drops his head onto Kyungsoo’s shoulder, biting and sucking bruises into the skin where it meets his neck.

He slides his hand up to Kyungsoo’s hair and tugs. Kyungsoo groans and starts thrusting, pulling Baekhyun’s hips down and nearly causing his leg to buckle under him.

“Fuck! Oh, baby, do it harder,” Baekhyun gasps.

He clings to Kyungsoo, squeezing his leg tighter around his waist.

Kyungsoo drags Baekhyun further down the wall—the brick scraping his back—and into a more suitable position.

Baekhyun slaps one hand back against the wall to keep his balance while Kyungsoo bends his knees and starts fucking into him at a near horizontal angle. He rests his head back against the wall, a gurgle of pleasure emerging from his throat.

“B-baby…” he whimpers.

Kyungsoo is far stronger than he appears to be and every time he drags Baekhyun forward to meet his hips, Baekhyun nearly bounces off the wall altogether.

He glances over Kyungsoo’s shoulder and notices Chanyeol; he’s still unconscious but his presence makes Baekhyun’s cock twitch. Whether it’s from the exhibitionistic rush of potentially being caught or the knowledge of what they’re about to do to him, he can’t be certain.

Baekhyun tugs Kyungsoo closer, wrapping an arm around his back—his thrusts are growing erratic.

“You—ah!—you gonna come soon, Soo?” Baekhyun breathes into his ear.

He sucks the lobe into his mouth and nibbles on it.

“Yeah,” Kyungsoo groans.

He grabs Baekhyun’s cheeks and pulls them apart, digging in his nails.

Baekhyun starts murmuring to him, all the filth that’s flooding his mind.

“You always fuck me so good whenever I want it,” he pants, “Am I nice and hot around your cock? Hm? Want to keep it inside me all fucking day?”

Kyungsoo is straining to reach his orgasm, not bothering to hold back when they’ve got so little time anyway. Baekhyun can hear the exertion, the groans in his throat that don’t quite make it past his lips and it’s one of his favourite sounds.

He shudders and pushes Kyungsoo off of him, dropping to his knees with a whimper. Kyungsoo doesn’t question him, immediately grabbing his cock and jerking himself off.

Baekhyun looks up at him—at his pink, parted lips and his dark eyes—and opens his mouth. He has a second or two of warning by way of a gasp before Kyungsoo comes across his face, striping his cheek and lips.

As soon as he releases himself, Baekhyun dips forward and licks up the come that’s dribbling down it.

When Kyungsoo is finished, Baekhyun shifts his position to lie across the cool cement floor and wraps a fist around his own cock, jerking himself off hastily.

Kyungsoo calmly redresses himself and fixes his hair before walking up beside Baekhyun. He presses the toe of his shoe into his neck, right next to his pulse, and Baekhyun gasps, hips curling off the floor. All Kyungsoo has to do is apply a little more pressure…

Baekhyun sobs as he comes, head pounding with a need for oxygen.

Kyungsoo steps back when the wave of pleasure has passed and Baekhyun is left gasping for breath.

After a few minutes he sits up and come drips down his chin onto his lap.

“Think I should stay like this until he wakes up?” Baekhyun hums mischievously.

Kyungsoo runs a finger through the mess on his face then taps his lips for Baekhyun to open his mouth and lick it clean.

“That depends on if you want him to take you seriously.” Kyungsoo mutters.

Baekhyun playfully bites his finger before letting it go.

He retrieves a cloth from the instrument table and wipes himself clean then turns to his grandfather’s old record player. There are only a handful of records down here; they keep most of them either in the lobby or the dining room.

“Mood music,” Baekhyun murmurs, thumbing through the sleeves.

He pulls one out and smiles, setting the needle down and cranking the handle for a few moments before stepping back.

As the fuzz gives way to an instrumental and crooning vocals, Baekhyun begins to sing along.

_“You are my destiny,_

_You share my reverie,_

_You are my happiness,_

_That’s what you are.”_


End file.
